Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons
by mahc
Summary: JED-ABBEY-ENSEMBLE - A terrible accident and its aftermath seen from the eyes of several of its witnesses. A story of pain, love, hope, and determination.
1. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 1

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 1/10 A West Wing Story by MAHC  
  
POV: Abbey Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. I just like to play with them sometimes.  
  
  
  
She sat in his cabin on the backup Air Force One, or whatever they called it when someone besides the President traveled in it, in his chair, looking out his window. Her nails had been bitten down almost to the quick, an old habit she thought she had long outgrown. C.J. sat across from her, trying not to stare, trying not to ask too often if she was all right, if she needed anything. Bless her, but right now she needed nothing except to get this bird on the ground.  
  
"He's alive," Leo had told her. "He's alive." And at the moment that was good enough. But not now. Not anymore. She wanted more. She wanted him to be fine, to be great, to be.alive. Okay. If that was all she was getting, that was okay.better than the alternative.for the moment. And what a terrifying and horrible moment that was.  
  
It had been broadcast live around the world and still no one was sure if it was planned specifically for him or just a matter of terrible timing. Her mind tried to block out the chaotic scenes of the camera bouncing back and forth between billowing dust and fire and torn bodies. Shutting her eyes did not help, but neither did opening them. She saw him over and over, a quick glimpse of the dark suited figure thrown back out of camera view, into the screaming crowds, pieces of steel and stone raining over them and among them. The camera fell, its lens capturing, at an odd angle, settling dust, running feet and legs, blaring sirens. Then it was righted, whether by its original operator or someone picking up the banner, so to speak, and carrying news of the tragedy to a stunned world.  
  
The footage, broadcast instantly to satellites and back to earth, showed more carnage and devastation. In her career, she had seen gruesome things before, wreck victims, gunshot wounds, even one pitiful teenager beaten almost to death with a lead pipe, but never in all her medical experience had she seen so many body parts strewn across a supposedly civilized town, so much blood splattered on cars and walls and people.  
  
When the first mind-numbing moments faded, she gained enough clarity to edge toward the screen, begging the camera to move, to find him, to show him to her. She had to see him, even if what she saw was unbearable. She had to know. But the scenes stayed frustratingly unfamiliar or unrecognizable. She thought for a moment she had spotted him bending over a prone figure, dragging a bloodied body from the rubble, but surely she had been mistaken, projecting what she desperately wanted to see. The secret service would have been all over him by then. Then the picture pivoted dizzily and focused on a mass of people, mostly wearing suits or shreds of suits. They hovered close together and she had no doubt as to whom they hovered over. As the camera drew closer, one of them pulled away from the group and placed his hand up, shaking his head and yelling for the camera to move back, move back! Reluctantly, it did, and she groaned audibly at the lack of information. This was wrong. She shouldn't be watching this on CNN. She should be there, with him.  
  
Damn it! She had spoken with him only an hour before, had heard the triumph in his voice, the lilt in his tone as he described the understanding they had forged, the treaty that seemed imminent. And his joy was not just for himself, but truly for the world and the peace he felt they had brought to such a troubled place. One more stop, he said, one more stop. A personal stop, she knew. A special place, a holy place. One more stop, then he was on his way home, reminding her that he had a stopover in Paris to meet with representatives of the European Union. If she had gone with him, they could have had a special evening in the City of Lights. But she begged off, had genuinely been too busy to accompany him. And now.now.they might never have such an evening again.  
  
Lily had been with her, had known immediately something was wrong, had watched in horror with her as the unbelievable scene unfolded. She wasn't sure when C.J. entered. Someone must have let her in, but she didn't know who. The normally composed Press Secretary was a bit disheveled, hair disarrayed, eyes wide and teary.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet?" she asked quietly, already seeing for herself that the television was on.  
  
She did not answer, but kept her eyes fixed on the screen, scanning the sickening news flashes that ran across the bottom: "Bethlehem Bombing.Bartlet's Condition Uncertain.Will America Retaliate." Her brain noted absently that Lily motioned C.J. inside the East Wing office.  
  
She tried again. "Abbey?"  
  
This time she heard her name, heard the question in her friend's voice. She turned toward her, eyes stunned, mouth open. Still, she did not speak.  
  
The taller woman moved closer. "It's Leo."  
  
Her nod indicated the blinking light on the First Lady's desk phone. She wanted to pick it up, desperately had to know what was happening, but at the same time she couldn't, couldn't receive the news she dreaded hearing, couldn't face the fateful words.  
  
"Abbey?"  
  
She turned and nodded vaguely. Lily had to lift the receiver from the hook and hand it to her. Leo was yelling to someone in the background, sirens screamed behind him. "Leo?" she said, quietly, too quietly. He didn't hear her. "Leo?" Louder this time.  
  
"Abbey! Abbey, thank God. Listen, he's alive."  
  
Oh dear God. Dear God. Alive! At least that. Thank you for that. While her heart screamed in relief, she somehow remained outwardly calm.  
  
"I coming," she announced.  
  
"Abbey, you can't-"  
  
"I'm coming, so you just make whatever arrangements you have to. I'm coming."  
  
The momentary silence told her Leo knew better than to argue with a frightened and heartsick First Lady. "All right," he finally conceded. "I'll have them prepare 29000 for you."  
  
"29000?"  
  
"The other AF-One."  
  
Oh. Okay. Whatever it takes. "How is he?" she forced, not really sure she wanted to know. Please let it be good. Please.  
  
"He's.hell, Abbey, I'm not a doctor. I don't know. They say it's serious, but-"  
  
Serious. Oh God. Her heart jumped into her throat and she pushed it back down into her chest. "Leo, what are his injuries?"  
  
Static cut through his voice for a moment and when he came back, she feared she had missed vital information. ".but can't say now.line not secure.try to stabilize at Shaare Zedek Medical.then maybe move."  
  
The line clicked dead and she simply sat, staring across her office, phone still in her hand. Lily eased it from her and replaced it onto the cradle. C.J. stared, eyes betraying the fear of news that might be too terrible to comprehend. With one fortifying breath, Abbey turned to the other two women, squared her shoulders and brought herself to her fullest height.  
  
"I'm going to Israel. And don't bother to argue." Despite the danger, neither of her listeners attempted even a perfunctory protest. It wouldn't have done them a bit of good, anyway.  
  
As the nauseating memories faded enough to allow her a tear-free breath, she let her eyes focus on the cotton cloud banks that hung outside the plane window, wondering why the hell she had ever agreed to let him to run for anything, much less President of the United States. Wondering if this was it, if this would be a completion of the fate that had been cheated at Rosslyn.  
  
Wondering if he was conscious.wondering how much pain he was in.wondering if he was scared.  
  
Wondering if she would ever see her husband alive again. 


	2. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 2

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 2/10 A West Wing Story  
  
POV: C.J. Spoilers: "The Portland Trip" Rating: PG Disclaimer: Not mine. Wish they were.  
  
This was just impossible. Impossible. Surely she was not sitting here unable to drag her gaze away from the First Lady, traveling on an airplane whose fuselage boldly proclaimed to the world THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. An airplane that was usually designated Air Force One. But not today. Not now. The occupant that determined the use of that call sign was not aboard.  
  
But his wife was.  
  
C.J. Cregg forced her eyes away from Abbey Bartlet, knowing the First Lady needed her space, knowing she didn't want someone staring at her constantly, monitoring her every sigh. But the press secretary found it difficult to rest her gaze anywhere else. She scanned the clouds outside the pressurized compartment without really seeing them. Her mind was back twelve hours, back to that sickening moment when their world was blown apart.  
  
"C.J.!"  
  
Toby's uncharacteristically panicked voice alerted her instantly that something had gone terribly wrong. She was just finishing notes for a 2:00 p.m. press conference, announcing the amazingly successful peace talks between Israel and Palestine, hinting at an agreement to provide Palestinians with a land of their own and perhaps finally put an end to centuries of conflict between the two peoples, dating back to Biblical times. These announcements usually ended with behind-the-scenes high-fives from Bartlet's senior staff, which, on occasionally magical moments, were joined by the President himself. Of course, that would be difficult with him still in Israel, but C.J. knew this would have been one of those moments. The exhausting days of negotiations played out like a well-edited script, and C.J. was already mentally planning their response to the certainty of Jed Bartlet's second Nobel Prize.  
  
"C.J., get in here, now!"  
  
In only a few strides she had swung into the room, staring open-mouthed for an incredulous minute, attempting, without success, to grasp the meaning behind the chaotic scenes they all witnessed. No one could move, no one could breath. They stood there, throats dry, hearts sick, thinking that surely this was not happening.  
  
Something finally cut through to her, a sense of responsibility possibly, to her President and her country. Or maybe she just couldn't watch anymore. Whatever it was, it prompted her to break away from the horrible show before them and kick into gear.  
  
Pointing at Toby, she snapped, "Get Leo on the phone. Or Charlie, or Ron, or anybody. Anybody who's there, who went with him. Get them now!"  
  
"I'm on it," he replied, propelled into action by her crisp assumption of control.  
  
She turned and her eyes fell on Carol, whose own eyes were wide and shimmering. "Where are Josh and Sam?"  
  
Before her secretary could even open her mouth to answer, she continued. "Get them here from wherever they are. If Leo's-" Now she faltered a bit, but sucked in a breath and continued before she lost it. "If Leo's unable to.make decisions, Josh'll need to take over that area."  
  
She grimaced at her own assessment. She had not mentioned the President in that. They had all seen the picture, had known the President was right in the eye of the blast, had started to work under the logical assumption that, if he were still alive, he would not be in any condition to make decisions. She hated herself for condemning him already as a casualty, but practicality dictated her decisions now. Later, she would reflect on what those decisions cost her.  
  
Something else occurred to her. Something so obvious she almost laughed that she had not thought of it first. Again to Carol, she said, "The Vice- President. I'm sure the secret service has already accosted him. Tell him we're here to help him. Josh's on his-"  
  
Almost as if it had been planned, the Deputy Chief of Staff burst into the media room. His hair, always a little wild anyway, flew in every direction, his tie had flipped over his shoulder and lay across his upper back. Breathless, he choked out, "Oh my God, C.J.! Oh my God!"  
  
But she was proud that his next comment had been, "What steps have you taken? Have you called Hoynes? How about Fitzwallace or Nancy McNally?"  
  
Damn! Fitzwallace and McNally, of course. How could she forget them? "Hoynes, yes. The others, no. Carol-"  
  
"Got it," her assistant responded, already moving away again.  
  
Now she took a quick moment to look into Josh's eyes. The haunted shadow probably mirrored her own. "Leo?" she asked, almost in a whisper.  
  
Josh's head shook slightly. "Haven't heard, yet."  
  
"Butterfield?"  
  
Another head shake.  
  
"CNN?" Now the tone dropped into bitter sarcasm.  
  
Josh nodded, an ironic smile on his face. "They seem to be the only ones that know what's happening. Our NBC affiliate is still showing Jerry Springer."  
  
She gritted her teeth in frustration. "Well, then let's get them! Maybe they can tell us what the hell's going on!"  
  
"I got him!" Carol's voice carried down the hallway ahead of her.  
  
"Who?" C.J. called back.  
  
"Leo!" Now the assistant was with them, pointing toward the nearest phone with its flashing light and strange tone that always sounded to her like the siren of a French police car.  
  
Gritting her teeth at the possible horror that awaited her on the other end, she managed a loud "Leo?"  
  
"C.J.?"  
  
"Yeah!"  
  
"C.J.?" He called again over the chaos in the background.  
  
"I'm here, Leo! What's happening? How's the President?" Please don't say he's dead. Please don't say it.  
  
"Where's Hoynes?"  
  
Oh God. "On his way to the situation room. Josh is headed that way, too." As she spoke, she watched the Deputy Chief of Staff start to turn.  
  
"Let me speak to Josh."  
  
Motioning him back, she handed over the phone and waited while he listened to Leo's instructions. When he finished, he didn't say a word, merely returned the phone to her and dashed out of the room.  
  
"Leo?" she tried, hoping he was still hanging on the line.  
  
"C.J.? C.J., where's the First Lady? Where's Abbey?"  
  
Closing her eyes against the sudden thought that Abbey would have to be told, she answered, "In the East Wing."  
  
"Get her."  
  
"Okay. I'll transfer you now. Hang on, Leo." Please hang on.  
  
It had to be the hardest thing she had ever done, walking into Abbey Bartlet's office like that, knowing the phone call she was directing to her might be bearing news of her husband's death. Her first thought was that the First Lady didn't know. She sat so calmly and quietly. Then she saw the television and realized. Abbey wasn't calm, she was stunned.  
  
Lily looked up and C.J. saw the pain there, pain for her boss, for her country, for the world. Her eyes related the concern she felt for Abbey Bartlet.  
  
Steeling herself, C.J. stepped forward. "Mrs. Bartlet?"  
  
No answer. Did she really expect one? Try again.  
  
"Abbey?" Okay, a personal connection. The haunted look in her friend's eyes tore at her and it took all her control not to fall to her knees and embrace the First Lady of the United States.  
  
"It's Leo," she said simply, indicating the blinking phone, but it still took Lily to pick up the receiver.  
  
She watched Abbey's face carefully, trying to discern what the Chief of Staff was telling her, trying to see if she needed to catch her after all.  
  
"I'm coming," the First Lady said, and it was a final declaration.  
  
C.J. listened as a brief argument ensued, then almost smiled when Abbey asked what the President's injuries were. Thank you! That meant he was alive! Thank you! When Lily finally hung the phone up for her, the First Lady took a breath and stood, her body screaming with a determination that only Abbey Bartlet could muster.  
  
"I'm going to Israel," she announced. "And don't bother to argue."  
  
"Yes, m'am." Wouldn't think of it.  
  
Now as the blue-white streaks eased past her unfocused gaze, C.J. thought back to the times she had flown on Air Force One with the President. It was after one infamous cross country trip she decided that never again would she malign the Fighting Irish, having suffered the humiliation of wearing a Notre Damn hat and regaling the Press Corps with a "brisk" rendition of the fight song. Never again. From now on, Notre Dame was the greatest college, football team, cathedral, whatever, in the universe. She was Esmerelda to his Quasimodo. Visions of Charles Laughton swinging from the bells popped into her brain. Wait.that probably wasn't a good analogy, but he would never again hear a negative word about his alma mater from her lips. She knew when she was beaten.  
  
The smile that had crept onto her face faded quickly as she remembered the current circumstances and she wondered what they would find when they arrived in Israel. The latest news had the President's condition as serious. Her briefings before they left had been vague, since Hoynes and Josh decided to keep details quiet, and she didn't know if that was for national security or for the peace of mind of the country. Was it better not to know too much, or better to know that your President was dying? And was he? She stole one more peek at the First Lady, who barely held her emotions in check. C.J. easily saw the terrible fear on her face, noted the red eyes and the dried streaks of tears, and her heart ached for that very visible pain.  
  
A touch on her shoulder turned her. Lily gave her a weak smile and said to both of them, "We're landing in twenty minutes. I thought you'd want to know."  
  
Abbey nodded, but didn't shift her attention from the clouds.  
  
As she buckled her seat belt, C.J. reflected on the few details she did have. The President was seriously injured. Had been in surgery to stop bleeding from internal injuries, and he also had some kind of head wound. It certainly didn't sound promising. Even Abbey had caught her breath at the latest update from Leo.  
  
The press secretary looked down on the drifting clouds and closed her eyes, falling back on almost-forgotten Catholic training to give her the instrument of prayer. And she prayed now, harder than she ever had before. 


	3. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 3

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 3/10 A West Wing Story  
  
POV: Charlie Spoilers: ITSOTG Rating: PG Disclaimer: These aren't my characters, but I like to pretend they are.  
  
Charlie Young drew his head up, working to ignore the pain of a dislocated elbow and swollen cheek. The guilt had begun to wash over him a few hours ago, when Leo wandered back into the trauma room and told him about the President.  
  
He had struggled to his feet despite painful injuries, wanting to stand for some reason, wanting to show Jed Bartlet respect even when he wasn't there himself. Leo tried to wave him down, but he refused to sit until he heard the news.  
  
"He's - he's - it's not real good, Charlie," the Chief of Staff managed, voice hoarse with emotion. "He's losing blood internally, so they've taken him back into surgery."  
  
Leo McGarry looked haggard. Charlie took note of the older man's bruises and fresh stitches. None of them had escaped injury, but his brain screamed at the injustice of the President's being the worst. Hadn't he paid his dues? He'd already been in harm's way once, because of Charlie, who felt it would have been fitting if he had taken the hit for his boss this time. But he hadn't. His mind stretched back to the beginning of the journey, a journey for which Jed Bartlet held high hopes, a journey, which, until a few hours ago, had shown every indication of meeting their grandest visions.  
  
One of the worse duties Charlie Young had, as personal aide to the President, was interrupting his moments with the First Lady. Whenever those involved knocking on their bedroom door, Charlie knew he would take the punishment later. This time, he felt relatively safe, since they were in the Oval Office saying goodbye. - relatively safe -  
  
Cautiously, he eased open the door from the outer office and stuck in his head, his tone apologetic. "Mister President?"  
  
Ah, damn. He had interrupted a kiss. Well, not exactly interrupted it, because neither the President nor the First Lady bothered to stop at the sound of his voice. But he probably put a damper on the moment. Taking their time to finish, they finally pulled apart a little and the President answered, not shifting his gaze from her face.  
  
"Yeah, Charlie?"  
  
"The limo is ready."  
  
He noted the body language of the two. Sometimes it was stiff, angry. Sometimes weary, resigned. Today it was loose, warm, and they kept their hands entwined, their bodies touching.  
  
"You sure?" the President asked her quietly, his voice clearly disappointed.  
  
"Yeah. Lily's got me scheduled for three appearances and a speech to the League of Women Voters. Getting out of one, maybe - but all four -"  
  
He sighed. "Yeah."  
  
They embraced again and the color of the President's voice changed from violet melancholy to a teasing rose. "I'm in Paris on the way back," he crooned softly. "The place for romance. If you come with me, I'll-" He stopped, his glance catching Charlie's and leaned in closer to her ear to whisper the rest of his promise. Whatever it was - and Charlie had a pretty good idea - it drew a low moan from the First Lady and earned the President another long kiss.  
  
Okay, this was getting away from him. With a nervous cough, he said to them, if they were even listening anymore, "I'll just be out here."  
  
As the door closed, the President muttered vaguely, "I'm coming." Charlie assumed that meant he was on his way from the office, but he couldn't be too certain when Abbey Bartlet was involved.  
  
  
  
"Mister Young?"  
  
He jerked from his memories to encounter the series face of an olive- skinned, black haired intern, clipboard under her arm.  
  
"Uh, yeah?" He tried to clear his head, but a mere shake produced a throbbing in his face.  
  
"X-rays show no broken bones, but you'll be quite swollen and tender for a few days, perhaps even weeks." Her rich voice only hinted at an accent. She spoke excellent English. "I have some samples of pain medicine. You'll need it with that elbow. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"  
  
Take me back in time so I can throw myself in front of Josiah Bartlet, otherwise -  
  
"No. I'm okay here. Mister McGarry knows - well, I wouldn't want him to come out with news and me not be here."  
  
She nodded, understanding, and moved to the next ambulatory patient, one of the secret service men who had pounced on the President after the attack. The sight of him dragged Charlie's thoughts to that moment.  
  
  
  
It was the last stop, one not actually scheduled, but the President had inquired about going, and Charlie wasn't surprised, was even anxious to go himself, to make a pilgrimage of sorts, as he had heard of other people doing.  
  
And the experience began in triumph, the three leaders basking in their success, crowds screaming their names in glory. He had not seen the President so pumped since.well, it was entirely possible he had never seen the President so pumped. Israeli and Palestinian police flanked the group as it pushed through the ancient streets of Bethlehem. Even the Jewish citizens seemed eager to see the U.S. President visit the historic birthplace. Hands thrust out to be shaken, cameras snapped and whirred, catching each smile, each wave.  
  
Charlie saw the President laugh and nod at a comment from the Israeli ambassador. Then his brain stopped working for a minute and he had no sensations at all. When it managed to again accept the messages sent from the rest of his body, he found himself face down against rough stone, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, his left arm bent the opposite way it should be.  
  
But that was secondary. Leaning against something, another human being he realized with a nauseating kick, he pushed to his feet and looked for the President.  
  
"Jed!" The fear in Leo McGarry's voice echoed off the buildings. The Chief of Staff was standing, dust-covered and bleeding from at least a dozen gashes on his face and hands. He moved forward, stumbling over rubble that remained hidden in the settling debris.  
  
"Jed!"  
  
"Leo!" Charlie called out just as he got a glimpse of whom they needed. The familiar figure was also standing, thank God, several yards away, bent over, arms extended. The aide saw him straighten and realized he had a firm grasp on a child, male or female he couldn't tell. The President stepped back, pulling the youth from the rubble, and moved on. Again, he bent, pushing away debris, dragging another body from the rocks and brick.  
  
"Mister President!" He and Leo called at the same time. No response. No acknowledgment. Charlie forgot his own pain, wiped blood from his lip and headed toward his boss. But he saw Ron Butterfield, hand pressing against his side, reach him first. At the touch on his shoulder, Jed Bartlet turned.  
  
Then Charlie couldn't keep from yelling out as the President's knees buckled and he fell into Ron's arms. Grunting, the agent tried to support him, but his own injuries obviously would not allow it. In three broad steps, Charlie was there, wrapping his good arm around the President's waist, jut as Leo flung another arm about his shoulders.  
  
They eased him to the ground and immediately the uninjured secret service agents, as well as police, swarmed, creating a barricade around the most powerful man in the world. The glimpse Charlie had gotten, though, wasn't good at all. One side of Jed Bartlet's head was plastered with blood. His suit coat hung in shreds and the white shirt underneath dripped with sticky red, as well.  
  
"O God," he prayed automatically. "Please be with him. Please be with him."  
  
Now he prayed the same prayer outside the trauma room at Shaare Zedek Medical Center in Jerusalem. Prayed for God to be with Jed Bartlet - and with Abbey Bartlet. If the President died, Charlie knew how devastating it would be to the country and to the world. But he also knew the tragedy that it would be to his wife. They were one. And the loss of one would force the other to live on incomplete.  
  
The First Lady was on her way, Leo had said. When she arrived, Charlie desperately hoped she would still be complete. Closing his eyes, he waited for her, and prayed. 


	4. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 4

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 4/10 A West Wing Story  
  
POV: Leo Spoilers: "A Proportional Response," "We Killed Yamamoto," "Posse Comitatus," and "100,000 Airplanes" Rating: PG Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. I just like putting them in these situations.  
  
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!  
  
Leo McGarry leaned his forehead against the doorframe outside the surgical suite, wincing when the pushed too hard against an aching bruise. This was real. Unfortunately, all of this was real.  
  
And he was usually a realist, himself, focusing on the practical aspect of everything. Maybe that was why he had been drawn to Jed Bartlet in the first place. To his idealism, his occasional Utopian philosophy. He had pulled Jed in on the proportional response to the downed Air Force jet. He had convinced him that killing Shareef was the practical thing to do. He had shot down his vision of curing cancer within ten years as being unrealistic, impractical.  
  
At least he hadn't quelled his dream of bringing peace to the Middle East. But maybe someone else had done that for him, either by creating such chaos again that talks broke down - or -- by killing the chief moderator.  
  
He wished he had Jed's optimism, some touch of hope. He yearned for it. His best friend lay opened up on an operating table just a few yards away. And that made him heartsick, nauseated with the very thought of what had happened. But the pragmatist in him realized that it wasn't just his friend in there. It was the man who had negotiated a history-making peace. It was the leader who had a vision for his country and his world. It was the President of the United States of America.  
  
Leo fought back the panic that pushed at him. Someone had to keep his head. Someone had to stay in contact with Hoynes and Fitzwallace and McNally. And he had done that, as Chief of Staff to Josiah Bartlet. But he had also thrown up in the streets of Bethlehem, as the friend of Jed Bartlet. Against his will, the scenes forced their way back into his mind, surreal images of blood and debris and horror.  
  
  
  
From the moment that his eyes located Jed through the choking dust, he didn't waver, didn't consider any possible ensuing danger, didn't care what happened to him. He moved, falling over rocks, ripping open fresh gashes in his hands. Charlie was with him, just as focused, even with a very obviously mauled arm. But they were a step too late. He watched as Jed collapsed, knees bending, head falling back, hair matted with blood that ran down his face into his eyes, mixing with more blood that seeped through his shirt. Oh God! Oh God! This was not good. This was very bad.  
  
He saw Ron falter, realized he couldn't take Jed's weight by himself and reached to help. Charlie caught one side; he caught the other. They eased him to the ground where they stood, knowing that they couldn't move him, even if they had wanted to. A human wall formed around them, agents shouting commands at cameras and panicked citizens. He looked down at his friend, praying that he still saw the chest rise, praying that help arrived quickly.  
  
Please, Jed! Hang on! I've got you! Hang on! Ron looked at him, empathy evident in his pained features, and Leo realized he had probably said that aloud.  
  
He took Jed's head in his lap, unconcerned about the blood that immediately soaked his pants. His face was ashen, his head covered in blood, so much that Leo couldn't even find the wound right away. But it was there, a serious gash than ran across the left side of his head almost from the temple to an inch past the ear. His eyes were closed now, his breathing rattled, tortured. Leo shifted so that he sat up more and that seemed to ease the gasps a little. Please, someone come. Please! And then the sirens screamed toward them, and his own vision became clouded, the shock ran through his body and hands drew him away, took control of the situation.  
  
"Help him!" he thought he said, but he wasn't sure. Suddenly, he felt sick, his stomach lurched and he braced a hand against a battered wall and vomited. More hands directed him to an ambulance, administered some sort of medication, and his head cleared a bit. When he finally came to fully, someone told him they had already taken Jed to Jerusalem, Shaare Zedek Medical Center, a hospital experienced in treating the injuries that had become all too frequent from bombings in this country. The President's wounds were serious, was all he could get out of anybody and, despite his impulse to rush to be with Jed, he knew his first duty was to his country. Miraculously, his cell phone had escaped damage and he drew a deep breath as his shaking fingers made an attempt to get a line through to the White House.  
  
  
  
Now he waited, having done all he could to help Hoynes make decisions that would stabilize the country, and the world - for now, at least - having delivered the painful news to Abbey that it was serious, and that he really didn't know a damn thing else, having waited for details that would give him some glimmer of hope.  
  
Bleeding internally. That wasn't good. Of course, neither was bleeding externally, and Jed was doing that, too. Both together had to be really bad. When he arrived, he had fought his way through the bustling trauma center, trying to locate anyone who might need to know, or be reminded of the M.S. complication. Jed would be under, and maybe that was the least of their worries, but he needed to tell them, anyway. It turned out, they had already prepared for that. After all, the President had made his announcement on national, as well as international, television. The world knew.  
  
Running a hand through his hair, he pushed away from his brace against the doorframe and dropped into a plastic-covered chair. He really should check on Charlie again, or, hell, bring him back here. Who cared what hospital rules were? Just as he contemplated making that move, a voice called for him.  
  
"Mister McGarry?"  
  
He turned and found himself facing a green-clad man, his scrubs splattered with blood, his face lined with fatigue.  
  
Oh God. What? What are you going to tell me?  
  
"Mister McGarry. It's about the President - " 


	5. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 5

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 5/10 A West Wing Story  
  
POV: Ron Butterfield Spoilers: ITSOTG Rating: G Disclaimer: No character in this installment is my original creation.  
  
  
  
Ron Butterfield was in pain, not that that was anything unusual. He had been in pain before; it was all part of the job. But this pain didn't originate from his bruised side or sliced back. It came from his heart, a place he wasn't accustomed to dealing with. In his line of work, you had to be hardened, to accept the very real possibility of losing men and women in the line of fire. And that meant personal feelings were dangerous.  
  
Ron was a veteran with the Secret Service, twenty years experience behind him, his first assignment - running beside Ronald Reagan's limousine. But it was for the administration of Josiah Bartlet that he assumed the position of head of POTUS detail. That meant organizing and ensuring the preparation and execution of all protection that involved the President and his family. Sometimes that even extended to staff members, as well. He placed himself as chief protector of "Eagle," knowing that brought the highest risk, but not willing to delegate it to anyone else.  
  
With other Presidents, it had been a job, something he did out of loyalty to his country. But something changed with Jed Bartlet. Maybe it was the closer proximity he had to the President. Or maybe it was the responsibility he felt as head of security. But if he really tried to determine the cause, he would have to admit that a great deal of it rested with the man himself, with the earnest sincerity, with the humor, with the charm, with the compassion that he had seen in the President from the beginning of his administration.  
  
At Rosslyn, it was in the worry of a father for his daughter. And it was in the genuine concern of a protectee for his protector. Absently, Ron flexed his fingers and watched the faded scar tighten.  
  
" - This guy's got about seven broken bones in his hand if someone wants to give him an asprin or somethin' - "  
  
Yes. With Jed Bartlet it was different.  
  
Pacing the institutional tiles of the hospital, he ran back over the events of the past hours, trying to find a clue, trying to pinpoint a moment when they could have stopped the tragedy.  
  
  
  
The trip to Israel was a nightmare for the service to begin with. Just being in that volatile part of the world created havoc in the department. Plans and back-up plans and back-up back-up plans piled up in paper stacks and on computer screens. Every possible scenario was explored, every possible misstep evaluated. Coordination with Israeli and Palestinian police bounced back and forth across the Atlantic. Nevertheless, Ron had to face the fact that, regardless of the completeness of plans, the thoroughness of preparation, if someone was truly determined to kill the President of the United States, there was no completely foolproof method of protection. Not for a President like Jed Bartlet, who was a people's President, who wanted to be out in the crowd, who insisted on that human touch. It had almost killed him once, and now Ron hoped that it had not succeeded on the second try.  
  
Almost there. For a week they had made it. Not one incident, nothing even close to a problem had occurred. Then the President said he'd like to visit the Bethlehem site that Biblical scholars and historians set as the birthplace of Jesus. They should have predicted this. Jed Bartlet was a religious man, a devout Catholic and surely did not want to miss such a meaningful opportunity.  
  
Still, things seemed to go well. Crowds adored him, turned out by the thousands to catch a glimpse, Jews, Christians, Muslims - it didn't seem to matter. It was a totally unexpected and amazing sight. An American President cheered through the streets of Bethlehem. All they needed, Ron observed, were palm branches to wave.  
  
There had been no warning, no indication at all. One minute screams of joy, the next screams of terror. As soon as he rose, he knew he was hit. Sharp pain ran across his back and under his arm, but he ignored it as best he could and set his eyes to scanning the area, looking for the one man who was his responsibility, the one man on whose well-being the peace of two nations might hinge, the one man he served out of both professional and personal loyalty for the first time in his career.  
  
It didn't take long. As soon as he heard the dual cry from Charlie and Leo, he saw him, somehow dragging people from the debris, apparently oblivious to his own terrifying appearance. Ron was closer, moved immediately, hoping to persuade the President to get out of the area, to leave the rescues to others. Maybe he would have to persuade him bodily, knowing Jed Bartlet's stubbornness. But as soon as he reached him and looked into the stunned blue eyes, he realized no such force would be necessary. The President was out on his feet. And then he wasn't even on his feet, falling into Ron as his surge of strength vanished.  
  
To his own disgust, Ron couldn't hold him; his own injuries betrayed him and his body failed to follow his brain's orders. The President was slipping, sliding to the ground, until another strong arm suddenly appeared and grabbed him. Then Leo joined Charlie and all three of them managed to break Jed Bartlet's fall. Despite his personal desire to stay with the President, Ron met his duties, thrust himself back into the job of protection, even then, especially then.  
  
Push the crowd back! Get those people away! Move the cameras back! Move them! Get an ambulance over here!  
  
Then, at the hospital, he stationed his men and women strategically, placed himself in the viewing room to observe the procedures on the President, finally stumbling out only when the doctors had done all they could.  
  
  
  
Now he waited to speak with Leo McGarry, to learn as many details as possible, to report on the initial investigation that his department had already begun, in cooperation with Israeli authorities and the FBI.  
  
And he was in pain.  
  
"Ron."  
  
Twisting a little too quickly, he fought down a grimace and greeted the chief of staff, who looked pretty rough himself, bruised, and cut, and soaked with the President's blood.  
  
"Mister McGarry," he acknowledged formally.  
  
Leo sighed. "I just spoke with a Doctor Hilweg, the attending physician. He and our own medical team were the ones you observed in surgery."  
  
Ron forced himself to wait for the news as Leo took a maddening pause.  
  
The older man squinted in fatigue, then continued. "He made it through. Internal injuries, head wound. It - it doesn't look so good, Ron, but he's still alive."  
  
Ron easily saw the pain on the features of this man, who, he reminded himself, was not only the President's chief of staff, but also his best friend.  
  
"They said the next few hours will tell."  
  
Their eyes met and Ron allowed his own to accept the terrible sadness he saw mirrored in the other man's. Leo continued, more softly, "I've spoken - I've spoken with Hoynes, Fitzwallace, and Nancy McNally - and - Abbey. C.J.'s with her and they are on their way."  
  
What? "Leo, the danger-"  
  
"I know. But you think I could keep Abigail Bartlet away from him now?"  
  
No. Ron knew that no one could do that.  
  
Now Leo seemed to look at him more closely. "You gotten any treatment? You look like you need some."  
  
Ron nodded, but that was not exactly true. His treatment consisted of stuffing a towel down his shirt to absorb the blood and wrapping an ace bandage about his ribs. Later he would take the time for real medical attention. Later, when he knew -  
  
After Leo left to await the President's arrival from recovery, Ron stood alone for a moment before he returned to his continuing monitor of security, even here, even now. His side ached; his back burned.  
  
But that wasn't where it hurt the most. Not by a long shot. 


	6. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 6

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 6/10 A West Wing Story  
  
POV: Abbey Spoilers: None, unless you're living in the rainforest and haven't seen "He Shall From Time to Time," or any of the second and third seasons. Rating: PG Disclaimer: Despite what I wish, these characters are not mine.  
  
Special thanks to Linda M. for the tips on M.S. medications/treatments!  
  
  
  
The motorcade screamed to a whining stop in front of the Shaare Zedek Medical Center in Jerusalem. An abundance of secret service swarmed around the black limousine, flags still whipping from the front fenders. American Marines stood heavy guard outside the doors and for blocks around the building. As she stepped from the back seat, she took note of the barrage of flashes that suddenly exploded from all around, but her focus was not on the press or the reporters shouting questions in all languages from behind the barricades. Her focus was completely inside that building, through those doors, in the special unit they told her they had created just for him.  
  
The familiar antiseptic odor greeted her, but she barely noticed it. Didn't even really notice when C.J. fell behind to field inquiries from the insistent press. Instead her eyes immediately caught the young man who stood as she approached, his eyes watering, his face betraying guilt and pain and sorrow.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet," he greeted softly, accepting her rare hug.  
  
"Charlie," she managed. "Charlie, how are you?" She took note of his injured arm, his swollen face.  
  
"I'll be all right, M'am. I'm glad you're here."  
  
Bracing herself, she asked, "How is he?"  
  
"I don't know, really. Leo hasn't been out in a while, and-"  
  
Before he could finish, a slender dark haired man approached. He obviously intended to speak with her, so she made the appropriate assumptions, extending her hand automatically as they met.  
  
"Doctor Bartlet," he greeted and she was surprised and grateful for the professional recognition despite the voluntary forfeiture of her license.  
  
"Yes, Doctor - "  
  
"Hilweg. Sander Hilweg." His voice was unusual, his accent not Israeli, but she didn't take the time to analyze it.  
  
No time to exchange pleasantries either. "Tell me."  
  
The doctor's lips tightened momentarily and her breath paused in her lungs and throat, unable to go up or down until he told her exactly what had happened to Jed.  
  
"He's alive."  
  
She allowed some of the air to escape in a sigh, let her heart beat on for a little while longer. He was alive still.  
  
"Perhaps we should talk back here," he suggested, guiding her away from the main trauma area.  
  
With a flashing thought of the loyal young man who waited, she called back, "I'll send someone to tell, you, Charlie. I promise."  
  
He smiled slightly. "Thank you, M'am."  
  
The room they entered was small, probably designed for discussions such as they were about to have. The doctor got right to business. "It's serious, but maybe we got lucky -"  
  
Got lucky! She pounced on those words of hope and listened as he counted off the damage.  
  
" - considering the force of the blast and his proximity to it. Okay, he's got a pretty good concussion and a substantial laceration on the upper left side of his head. Twenty-two stitches, but the scar will be under his hair."  
  
She smiled at the doctor's kind concern for Jed's appearance. As if that mattered to her at the moment.  
  
"We are a little concerned about the effect on his vision. He took a powerful blow. Didn't crack the cranium, though."  
  
Thank God he's so hardheaded, she decided, with more sincerity than sarcasm.  
  
"Left side of his torso with deep contusions and lacerations, severely bruised sternum, four fractured ribs, two ribs completely broken. When he arrived at the trauma room, his breathing was labored and he gave indications of internal damage. Most likely one of the ribs had penetrated a lung, and we were possibly looking at a ruptured spleen. Both conditions were verified in surgery. We repaired the lung, as well as internal lacerations, and removed his spleen. Superficial injuries include numerous cuts and contusions over his chest and upper arms, a few that required stitches."  
  
Abbey drew from every piece of professional façade she had not to break down into uncontrolled sobs at the seemingly unending tally. Almost any one of them would be considered serious and possibly life threatening. But all of them together- She clenched her jaw, using the tightness to keep her emotions from erupting right there.  
  
"There was apparently someone between him and the direct line of the blast." He sighed. "Probably a child, since most of the debris went up. His legs are barely touched."  
  
Abbey tried to suppress the pain of that revelation, too, but she couldn't. Oh, dear God. Tears welled in her eyes, several escaping and trailing down her cheeks. She didn't bother to wipe them away.  
  
Understanding her reaction, the doctor continued gently. "I believe he probably did the worst damage to himself after the blast."  
  
Even with the added turmoil, she couldn't suppress an ironic smile at this last bit of news. Typical of Jed. "What?"  
  
"I don't think the lung was compromised until he got back up. This probably caused the fractured ribs to break through-"  
  
"Got back up? What was he doing up?"  
  
The doctor smiled slightly. "Apparently, Doctor Bartlet, he was rescuing people."  
  
She digested this information with a mixture of pride and irritation. Damned fool. Then, frowning, she realized she needed to ask one more thing. "What about - what about the -" Grit your teeth and just say it, damn it. " - the M.S.?"  
  
She would always appreciate the doctor's matter-of-fact tone. "Well, we're keeping a close watch on that. The anesthesiologist took precautions during surgery. There are some minor signs, but we've already spoken with his personal physician."  
  
She flinched at the mention of his "person physician," knowing it was no longer she.  
  
"Because of the severity of his injuries, we've chosen to administer daily Betaseron injections as opposed to switching to Prednisone or Solu-Medrol, since they have a tendency to impede healing. In addition, even though I know he'll be in extreme pain, we want to get him off the pump as soon as possible. I'm sure you're aware of the dangers of extended use of morphine- based pain killers on M.S. patients."  
  
She nodded, satisfied with the line of treatment so far, trying to assume the role of physician over wife. It wasn't working.  
  
"Of course, we're also keeping IVs going and filling him with antibiotics to discourage infection. As long as we can keep his fever down, we've got a chance of avoiding a major relapse."  
  
A sudden yearning to take over, to make sure everything possible was being done for her husband flashed through her, but she fought it down, knowing this man was obviously good or he wouldn't have been chosen to be in charge of care for the President of the United States. Concern over his last comment about a very real complication pushed her on. "Fever?"  
  
"It's hovering around 101, but you realize, of course, that's understandable, even expected, with his injuries."  
  
She nodded as he related the steps they had taken. And she smiled when he handed her the chart for her perusal. The gesture touched her, brought more tears to her eyes, which, of course, given what she had been through in the past fifteen hours was not too difficult. Her emotions lay exposed and raw. With effort, she gathered enough control to meet his eyes without falling apart, then read the findings, which echoed exactly what he had told her. Jed's vital signs didn't look great, but at least they were stable. Temperature 101.3. Not good, but not horrible.  
  
"I'm sure you want to see him, now," the doctor was saying.  
  
Hell yes. Get out of my way. "Thank you," she answered calmly.  
  
Apparently, an entire wing had been cleared for their unexpected patient. She hoped the poor sick people inconvenienced by this were not in too bad a shape. Her agents followed her closely, passing a seriously beefed up "Eagle" detail, some of whom had come with her on 29000. At the door, she paused, catching her breath and attempting to prepare herself for the unavoidable pain of seeing him. At a nod from her, the agent stepped aside and opened the door. The room was large, probably an entire ward during normal business, but the sole bed to the right held its only patient. Her professional eye took in the working machines, beeping in the right places, and registering minimally satisfying statistics. Leo turned, as if he sensed her, and she almost lost it right there.  
  
Without a word, he took her hands in his and kissed her cheek, drawing her into his arms. For a moment, they held onto each other, sharing the pain but also the relief of knowing that he was alive. When she drew back she studied him, taking in the discolored left eye and several stitched areas across his forehead, chin, and jaw. Then her eyes fell to the massive dark stain spreading from his abdomen down to his knees.  
  
"Leo?"  
  
His face betrayed regret when he looked down and realized what she saw. "Oh, Abbey. I'm sorry."  
  
"Leo, my God. Are you all right?"  
  
"Abbey," he said gently, squeezing her hands. "It's not my blood."  
  
Then whose -  
  
Suddenly his meaning hit her and her knees weakened. As much blood as she had seen in her life, as much as she had worn herself, it was different when it was from someone you loved. When it was Jed's blood. And there was so much. Oh God.  
  
Leo caught her arm, tried to ease her into a chair, but she shook her head, pushing away and moving slowly to the bed, to the figure in it, to the battered body of her husband. Oh, Jed.  
  
Steeling herself, she eased up to his right side, careful not to jar the rail. Her eyes ran over him, counting each bruise, each cut. A wide white strip wound around his head, his hair springing over the top. His upper body was bare, allowing for more bandages to wrap his ribcage, bulky over the left side where the initial damage was, and the incision where they had repaired and inflated his lung. He would have detested all of the tubes that ran in and out of his body, but at the moment, it didn't matter. The dotting of perspiration on his upper lip bothered her.  
  
"Oh, Jed," she whispered. "What have you gotten yourself into now?"  
  
Unable to keep from it, she ran gentle fingers over the deep bruise on his cheek, the swollen lip, the sliced brow, the smattering of black stitches that looked vaguely like caterpillars, the discolored splotch spreading across the middle of his chest. Despite the efforts of the medical staff, flecks of blood still stuck to him, in his hair, under his jaw, on his shoulder. Stepping across the ward to a sink, she ran warm water onto a bath rag and leaned over his bed, gently wiping away as much of the horrible evidence as she could.  
  
She didn't notice when Leo left, didn't hear the door or his footsteps, didn't notice the agents by the window, the agents inside the room by the door. She didn't notice anything except the steady beep of the monitor and the slow breathing of her husband. She didn't even remember pulling up a chair. Maybe Leo had done that. But now she sat in it, holding his limp hand in hers, running her fingers across the blonde hairs and the bold veins, feeling the blood pump, praying that it continued to pump.  
  
She didn't have to push his hair back from his face. The bandage did that for her, but she brushed her fingers through it anyway and kissed his lips gently.  
  
"I'm here, Babe. It's okay now. I'm here." 


	7. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 7

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 7/10 A West Wing Story  
  
POV: Jed/Abbey Spoilers: Rating: PG Disclaimer: Jed Bartlet is not mine (but boy, do I wish.). Neither is anyone else in this story, except for Dr. Hilweg.  
  
  
  
Receding muffled waves sloshed through his brain, washing across the fleeting glimpses of comprehension. Each time they passed he tried to grab hold, to hang on to the momentary clarity, but it slithered out of his weak grasp. Sometimes distorted voices rippled through the waves, some he recognized, some he didn't, but none lingered long enough for him to identify the invisible speakers. Occasionally his mind rebelled against the twisted visions of people running and debris hurling in lethal paths all around. He tried to stop it, to help them, to protect them, but couldn't get to them all. There were so many, all reaching out to him for help. He cried out in warning, in direction, in encouragement, and soon he knew that he cried out in pain, too. Always the visions ended with a sudden blackness, which lasted for a while but inevitably gave way to the next cycle of nauseating waves.  
  
  
  
"Mister President?"  
  
Through a long tunnel he heard the voice and tried to focus all his energy on moving toward it, swimming in the jelly-like substance that seemed to fill his brain.  
  
"Mister President, can you hear me?"  
  
With a singular lunge, he caught and held on enough to analyze the speaker. An accent of some sort. Good Lord, surely he had not gone off and gotten himself captured! What an idiotic thing to do. What a disaster! But the voice seemed kind enough. Now he became more aware that the voice was muttering to himself in.German? Last he checked, Germany was an ally, so unless he had been warped back to World War Two by some time anomaly, he figured he was not in enemy hands. All right, try something new. Talking back, perhaps.  
  
When in Rome - or Berlin - "Wo - bin Ich?" His voice was scratchy, weak, but intelligible.  
  
The tone in the response revealed clearly impressed surprise. "Sprechen sie Deutsch?"  
  
That's what I was shooting for, anyway. "Ja," he managed to mumble.  
  
"Shaare Zedek Medical Center, Jerusalem, Herr President."  
  
Jerusalem? What the hell was a German doctor doing in Jerusalem? Or did that somehow make sense? Nevermind. Move on. "Wie heisst - du?" Oops, that was the informal version, but he couldn't quite get his mind to focus on precise cases and etiquette. Still, he was pleased that that much had come back to him. German was one of his four languages, but he hadn't really used it in several years. He hoped he remembered all of his nouns correctly. Dim memories of calling Abbey a cheese in French fluttered through his mind.  
  
"Doktor Hilweg. Sander Hilweg." The voice paused, then returned, its tone casual. "Wie geht es Ihnen?"  
  
How do I feel? Like I just jumped out of a perfectly good airplane and Rob Ritchie packed my chute. What was the German word for lousy? His mind supplied, "Nicht gut," which wasn't quite right, but it didn't matter, because the words wouldn't form on his lips anyway.  
  
"Mister President," the voice returned, a touch of amusement in its tone, "I'm getting nasty looks from some other people here. I think they suspect us of some sort of conspiracy. Mind if we change back to English?"  
  
English? Oh, well, if you want - "Sure."  
  
"Okay. Now, I want you to open your eyes."  
  
They're not open? All right. Do my best. He tried to imagine himself opening his eyes, tried to follow the simple process of lifting the lids, but his body refused to help. Finally, after concerted effort, he managed to ease them to slits, grimacing at the glaring light that bombarded the action. Blinding pain shot through his skull and his eyes shut involuntarily.  
  
"Lights down!" he heard the doctor order. "I'm sorry, Mister President. Try again, please."  
  
Reluctantly, he did. This time the glare was gone and he could make out blurred figures above him, their outlines similar to the pastel blotches of an impressionist painting. He blinked a couple of times to clear his vision, but it didn't help. Instead, he tried to concentrate on one of the blobs before him. The first one he saw probably belonged to the voice that had dragged him from his ubiquitous floating.  
  
"Sir, what do you see?"  
  
"Um." Looks like Monet or maybe Picasso, even though he was really a Cubist-  
  
"Mister President?" A little more forceful this time.  
  
Leave me alone. Just let me groan in peace.  
  
Another voice entered his brain, this one familiar, secure, warm. "Mister President?"  
  
Now he smiled, even though he wasn't sure it actually reached his lips. Rousing his energy for this voice, he grunted out the word. "Leo."  
  
"Yeah. Yeah. I'm here. Just take it easy. Man, it's good to hear your voice."  
  
Gee, Leo seemed awfully happy, for Leo, anyway. Leo? Mister President? His brain finally deciphered some of the information that had been fed into it in the past five minutes. Oh, hell. I'm the President. Take it easy? Can't. Can't now. What happened? Have to do something.  
  
"What - " But he couldn't get it out, was fading quickly, the darkness closing back in on him.  
  
"I'll tell you later," Leo assured him.  
  
"No. Not - later. Now." He'd hang on. He had to know. Something had happened. Something bad. He must have been involved. He really did feel like he had fallen out of an airplane, or at least what he figured that would feel like if you actually survived. God, he hurt all over, especially his head and his left side. Okay, and his chest didn't feel so great, either. He wished Leo would lift the anvil off it.  
  
With a sigh, his friend and chief of staff glanced at the doctor, whose unfocused head nodded, then gave a few bits of information to his commander- in-chief. "There was apparently a bomb at the site. We're still not sure if it was planted there specifically for you, or if it was - well - a stray that detonated at a really crappy time. You took shrapnel and were thrown from the blast."  
  
Bomb? Site? Thrown - oh, yeah. Now those nightmare visions made more sense. He remembered others, too, though. "Who - else?" He stopped to draw a deeper breath, but choked it off when his side and chest exploded in pain. Damn! Okay, don't do that again. Had to communicate better, but his body was betraying him, dragging him back down. "Dead?"  
  
Leo had moved into his view now, another blur really, but a comforting one. "Three secret service dead, five injured. Ron caught debris in his back and side and is cut up and bruised pretty good, but he's all right. Several in the crowd killed and wounded. I don't know that count. But - "  
  
The hesitation drew his fading attention. " - the Israeli ambassador is dead."  
  
God. His eyes shut against the pain of that information. Then something horrible occurred to him. They flew open again. "You?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"You - okay?"  
  
"Fine." He heard the smile in the voice. Thank God. "A few cuts and bruises. That's all."  
  
"Charlie?"  
  
"He'll be fine, too."  
  
Okay. Okay. He made an attempt to grasp Leo's arm, to reassure him that everything was all right, to make sure for himself his friend was fine. But he didn't seem to be able to move. Something was holding him down. Now he tried to turn his head to look. Fire flashed from his eyes back through his brain and he heard himself groan even though he had not planned to at all. Firm hands steadied his head.  
  
"Easy, Mister President," warned the doctor. "Don't try to move. We want to keep your upper body immobilized a little longer. I'm going to let your morphine pump take over in a minute and you just need to let it work."  
  
No! Can't be under any longer. Need to run the country. Who's - who's in charge? "Leo!" I need to see Leo.  
  
"I'm here, Sir."  
  
"Leo, who's-"  
  
"Don't worry. It's okay. Hoynes is in the White House. Josh and Toby are with him, and Fitzwallace and McNally are in the situation room. I talk with them every hour or so."  
  
Okay. Not great, but okay. Now his thoughts started to clear a little. He was in the streets of Bethlehem, shaking hands of beaming Jews, Christians, and Muslims alike, his Israeli tour a resounding success, peace treaty imminent. One last visit to the historical birthplace of Jesus before he concluded. One last visit. The Israeli ambassador had just turned to him, smiling, and commented on how excited everyone seemed to be to have him there.  
  
-- You can't say Dallas doesn't love you today, Mister President -  
  
Then he saw only debris and blood and heard shouts and cries of anguish. He stumbled among the torn bodies, clasping hands, digging through rubble. He heard himself calling out directions, remembered grabbing the arm of a child and pulling him from under a wall of bricks. Then we was down, tried to get back up, to help, needed to help, but he had no strength to fight it. Couldn't see. Something in his eyes. Couldn't breathe. His body burned all over. Get Leo. Tell Leo. Call Washington. Get Hoynes.get Hoynes. Who knows what happened? The world. The world saw it - had to see it - cameras were following - Abbey. Oh God, Abbey saw it.  
  
"Abbey," he gasped.  
  
Leo took his hand, gripping it in comfort. "Abbey's been here. We made her take a break, but I've sent Charlie to get her. They'll be back any minute."  
  
"How - long?"  
  
"How long what?"  
  
He swallowed, trying to drag enough energy to his lips to speak a little longer. "How - long since - explosion?"  
  
Leo seemed to hesitate briefly, but answered, "Day before yesterday. About forty-two hours or so."  
  
Oh God. What was happening with the peace treaty? What had this done to it? He fought to ask Leo, struggled to raise himself in the bed, despite the doctor's warning, but the black tunnel had almost engulfed him now, pushing the colorful blobs far away. As he tried to mumble a response, it fell short of intelligibility. Instead, he could only surrender to the darkness and let go, hearing, as he faded out, the doctor's comments to Leo.  
  
"I'll speak to Doctor Bartlet when she gets here. Certainly his regaining consciousness is a major step. If we can keep any - complications at bay, I think he has a chance."  
  
Well, good. It's always a bonus to get blown up and still have a chance.  
  
  
  
  
  
Abbey Bartlet stood next to the bedrail, her body weary of the chair and antsy for Jed to come around again. She had returned less than a minute after he drifted off from his initial awakening. And even though Dr. Hilweg assured her things were looking better, she yearned to see for herself, had to hear his voice and look into his eyes. That had been five hours ago and she was sure he would come to any minute.  
  
But he remained stubbornly asleep. Typical. Doing the opposite of what she wanted. No, she realized, that wasn't totally fair. She had to include herself in that category, too. Maybe if she had come with him, if she had been here - But she knew it would have changed nothing, except place another person in danger.  
  
Oh, Jed. You're really pissing me off, you know? Wake up already.  
  
Sighing, she closed her eyes and muttered, "What am going to do with you, Jethro?"  
  
"Don't - call me - that - "  
  
With a jerk, her head rose, her heart leaped, and her hands reached over the rail, grasping his tightly.  
  
"Jed!"  
  
" - 's better - "  
  
His eyes had not opened, but he still managed to greet her appropriately. "Hey, Babe." It was not even a whisper and she wasn't totally sure she had heard it until she saw the slight smile.  
  
Squeezing his hand, she leaned forward to brush her lips against his. "Hey yourself. How do you feel?"  
  
" - hurts - "  
  
She bit her lip and winced, looking away for a moment. "I know, Sweetheart. I know. I'll be here."  
  
She couldn't tell him, yet. Couldn't break it to him that this was nothing compared to what he would go through before long. Dr. Hilweg had mentioned that he wanted to begin withdrawing the morphine tomorrow morning. And, even though she agreed with him and knew it was the best decision in the long run, she dreaded it for Jed. God, she dreaded it for him. When she brought her gaze back up, she saw that his eyes had opened just barely.  
  
"God - you look - sexy," he mumbled, and she laughed and cried at the same time. He was so predictable, so wonderfully predictable.  
  
His eyes closed again, but he still continued to speak. " - shouldn't have come - dangerous - "  
  
"Well," she returned, forcing herself to keep the tone light, "remember the night you left? You promised me a romantic evening in Paris on the way back if I came with you."  
  
The second smile almost reached his lips. " - said 'no' though - "  
  
"A girl can change her mind, can't she?"  
  
She cringed at the thinness of his usually rich, strong voice. "Always, Sweet - Knees - "  
  
Brushing at his hair, she dropped her hand to run the back of it over his jaw, frowning at the beads of perspiration on his face. "You're all right, Baby. Just rest now." But the increased flush of his cheeks and the warmth there punched at her stomach. Please, she prayed, please don't let this happen, too. Isn't the other enough?  
  
He managed to rally for a moment. "Abbey?"  
  
She bent over him to catch the weak tone. "Yeah? I'm here. What is it?"  
  
Again, the smile shadowed his lips. "Go with me - to Paris. I could - jump you - under the Eiffel - Tower - "  
  
Shaking her head, she chuckled, despite her fears. So predicable. "Sure, Pumpkin," she agreed. "We'll do that. But we're not in France, yet, so you go to sleep now, okay?"  
  
" - 'kay - " The even, heavy breathing told her he had slipped off again for a while. Let him go. It won't be long before sleep will be impossible.  
  
As she fell back into the chair, the pressure of suppressed emotions finally defeated her and she broke down, face in her hands, great gasping sobs shaking her whole body, trying to cleanse itself of the poisonous agony of the past three days. She didn't hear the door open, wasn't aware of anyone else with her until Leo's voice, bordering on panic, broke through to her.  
  
"Abbey! Abbey, what is it? What's happened?"  
  
Behind him, the rush of more feet clattered across the floor, and when she looked up a dozen green and white figures hovered in Code Blue mode around Jed.  
  
"No!" she shot out, standing and reaching out simultaneously. "No! He's all right. He just -- came to for a while and - " Trailing off, she ducked her head at the hot flush of embarrassment. Everyone in the room relaxed with a collective sigh, their sympathetic expressions inadvertently causing her more chagrin.  
  
"I'm sorry, Leo. I just-"  
  
"Oh dear God, Abbey. It's not like you don't deserve to let go. I'm sorry I burst in like that. I heard you and thought-" He broke off and she was grateful for that. She didn't want even to contemplate the rest of his sentence.  
  
Quietly, the medical staff slipped from the room, leaving them to their privacy, leaving her to her healing. After a moment, Leo dragged another chair over and motioned for her to sit. When she did, he eased next to her and pulled her into his chest, whispering soothing reassurances, rubbing her back, letting her tears soak his fresh shirt. She had no idea how long they stayed in that position, but in those moments, or maybe even hours, she had never felt so close to her husband's best friend. And she was reminded, for the first time in months, why Jed loved him so much. 


	8. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 8

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 8/10 A West Wing Story  
  
POV: Leo Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Only Dr. Hilweg is mine. The others belong to A.S. I'm glad I can borrow them, though.  
  
Thanks, again, in this installment to Linda for technical assistance regarding M.S. medications.  
  
  
  
"What do you mean you're not ready to make a judgment, yet? You've had five days, for cryin' out loud!"  
  
Leo McGarry's thin frame paced in agitation in the room Ron Butterfield had secured for him at Shaare Zedek Medical Center. It was his escape from the tension of one painful situation into another equally difficult one. Now, frustration boiled up into his face, clenching his jaw and furrowing his brow.  
  
"Damn it, Nancy," he bit out, "we've got to make a decision. We've got to know, soon."  
  
As usual, Nancy McNally's voice did not waver, did not vacillate even one note. "I know, Leo. I know. But we've got to be sure."  
  
"I know." All right. Drop it for now. Move on. "How's Hoynes doing?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Nancy-"  
  
"Leo, he's doing fine. A good job."  
  
"Yeah. Listen, when do you think-"  
  
"Give me ten more hours and I think we can give you a 85 percent reliability rate." It was something he had noticed about her frequently, her ability to anticipate the next question. Sometimes it irritated him, but Jed seemed to revel in the quickly paced conversations they enjoyed.  
  
As if she heard his thoughts even then, she asked, "How is he?"  
  
Trying to suppress a sigh, Leo closed his eyes, knowing she couldn't see that gesture of pessimism, at least. "It's tough, Nancy."  
  
Only exhaustion and stress allowed that bit of candor, but once done, he felt relief, felt the stream open up just a bit. "They took him off morphine yesterday and he's coming around more, but that just leads to- "  
  
He bit his lip at the vision of clear agony on his friend's flushed face earlier that day, flinched at the tight eyes, the locked jaw, the pinched brow. Leo couldn't imagine what kind of pain he must be enduring now and wished there were some way he could take it on himself, wished sincerely that he could trade places with Jed Bartlet just for a little while, just to get him through this.  
  
"Leo?"  
  
He had almost forgotten about Nancy. "It's tough," he repeated and sensed even through the secure channel that she understood completely.  
  
"Yeah. Tell him we're with him, won't you? And the First Lady, too."  
  
Now Leo smiled a little. "They know. But I'll tell them."  
  
"Leo?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Hoynes is doing okay."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"All right. I'll update you within two hours."  
  
As the phone line clicked dead, he reflected on their desperate search to discover exactly what happened, to prevent the total collapse of their hard- won peace efforts, to keep the world from falling apart. Nancy was right; Hoynes had done well, had reassured the nation that things were under control, even as the survival of its President remained uncertain, even as rumors of American, Israeli, and Palestinian retaliation ping-ponged from satellites to televisions all around the world. No one had yet stepped forward to claim responsibility. The Palestinian government flatly denied any knowledge or involvement, as expected. Leo had gotten to the Israelis as quickly as possible to stifle any impulse to cast blame, and to his great surprise, was acknowledged, at least for the moment.  
  
FBI, CIA, Secret Service, Israeli Intelligence, working both together and separately, stayed busy around the clock combing through debris, sifting through rubble in an attempt to locate clues to the blast. The world waited. Waited for the next move. Waited for someone to blink.  
  
And waited impatiently for word on Josiah Bartlet. The block around Shaare Zedek teemed with reporters from around the globe, jostling for any glimpse of First Family members or Bartlet staffers. Except for her arrival, Abbey Bartlet had not made an appearance at all, but Leo knew even the reporters didn't expect that. Still, they hungered for news, for any tidbit, and occasionally Leo fed them C.J. to keep them at bay.  
  
Stepping past the agent that continuously guarded the secure room, he glanced up at an overhead television, noting the subtitles across the bottom of the screen. At front center stood the press secretary, calm as usual, shoulders relaxed, voice steady. God, she was good, Leo reminded himself, filing a mental note to tell her.  
  
"As I said, the President's condition has been upgraded from serious to stable. He is no longer under the influence of the morphine pump, but handling the pain from his injuries - on his own."  
  
Leo winced. That was too close to the truth. The only medication Dr. Hilweg had allowed Jed was Naproxen, which made him so sick to his stomach that it defeated the purpose. So they offered Tylenol, plain old over-the- counter Tylenol. And it worked about as well as they had expected. If it was giving Jed any relief at all, Leo was just glad he couldn't see him without it.  
  
"Yes, the President is aware of the situation and aware of Vice-President Hoynes' actions. Vice-President Hoynes has full authority to act under the President's directives, which is exactly what he is doing."  
  
From listening to C.J., the public would assume that, although Jed Bartlet's injuries certainly were not minor, he was already well on his way to recovery.  
  
"The President is now speaking regularly with the Vice-President and making the final decisions."  
  
Again, Leo tightened his lips. This was certainly an optimistic statement, if not closer to an outright lie. True, Jed was no longer under the influence of mind-altering painkillers, but now the severity of the pain itself acted as an almost-as-powerful deterrent from logical and coherent thought.  
  
Forcing back the occasional rush of panic that had burned through him since the explosion, he realized he needed to go back, needed to relieve Abbey for awhile. Ever since her emotional collapse, she had draped the strong curtain of wife and First Lady about her, had calmly handled each bit of news, good or bad.  
  
Most of it, thank goodness, was good: ribs beginning to heal, lung functioning well. They had removed the bandage from around his head and declared the wicked gash progressing as expected. Even his eyes had cleared somewhat, although he still complained about double vision. The chief of staff chuckled at Jed's comment, while still under the influence of the morphine, that he didn't really mind seeing two of C.J. and Abbey, but he thought it cruel and unusual that he was forced to look at two Leos. Recently, though, the President's easy humor had been conspicuously absent.  
  
One reason was the pain, but the other reason, the ominous uncertainty looming over them, was ten times worse.  
  
Stepping into the room, he felt the tension, sensed the crackle of frustration snapping all around the bed. Jed Bartlet sat on the edge, his eyes dark, his teeth gritted, sweat running freely down his face. Abbey leaned over him, hand on his back, murmuring low tones of encouragement and support. Leo considered stepping back out, letting them deal with this in privacy, but, hell, with four secret service agents in the room, he figured he wasn't really intruding too much. He watched for a minute, allowing Jed to become accustomed to the new position.  
  
Finally free from almost all invading tubes, the President had first requested, then actually ordered the doctor to allow him pajama bottoms to replace the ignominious hospital gown. Successful, he now perched in that attire, Abbey by his side to steady him, contemplating actually standing on his feet for the first time since Leo had watched him collapse into Ron's arms five days ago.  
  
"You are the most stubborn jackass," Abbey was saying, her voice both irritated and anxious. "You're not ready, yet. Give the drugs a chance to get completely out of your system."  
  
Leo knew, then, what fear was behind Abbey's scolding. The reason Dr. Hilweg had taken Jed off the painkillers so soon, the logic behind allowing the President to face such severe pain on his own. It was because of the weakness. It was the M.S.  
  
Moving closer, he cleared his throat, attempting an upbeat tone, trying to distract a stubborn man from his single focus. "Hey! Leaving already? I just got here."  
  
Abbey's eyes shot a grateful look his way before they returned to rest on her husband, who did not respond, but shifted slowly to brace his arms against the mattress. It was obvious he intended to stand, regardless of anyone else's experienced opinion.  
  
Giving up any pretense now of not understanding the situation, Leo stepped quickly to his friend's side. "What are you doing there, Mister President?" he asked pointedly.  
  
Forced to acknowledge his presence, Jed managed to grind out, "Either move - or help."  
  
Okay. Not much of a choice. Try delay tactics. "I'll help, sure. But why don't we wait for Doctor Hilweg? Let him be here, too."  
  
He dodged the dagger that shot from Jed's cool eyes then watched as the patient nodded acquiescence.  
  
That was easy, he thought, until Abbey said, "I've already called for him."  
  
Ah. No wonder. For a while they remained in that position, no one talking, the only noise from the heart monitor still attached to Jed's chest, and the pained breaths he took.  
  
Finally, Leo heard the door swing open and looked up to see the requested physician. Dr. Sander Hilweg smiled cheerfully, as if totally oblivious to the tense scenario set before him. "Good morning, Doctor Bartlet, Mr. McGarry," he greeted pleasantly, then turned his full attention to his troublesome patient. "Herr President," he acknowledged, having adopted that reference after their first bilingual, and rather hazy, conversation.  
  
Leo heard only a grunt in response.  
  
"So you want to get up?"  
  
Abbey answered for him. "You'll find he's the most stubborn patient you have had, Doctor." But her eyes softened as she added, "And determined. Yes, he wants to get up."  
  
Leo noticed the agreement pass between the two physicians, and saw Abbey's gratitude at being included, even unofficially.  
  
"Mister President," Hilweg began, his warm tones cooling slightly with the seriousness of his statements. "I would advise you to wait at least another day before you attempt to stand."  
  
Jed's head turned, his eyes still glaring. Clearly he was not pleased with the doctor's suggestion.  
  
"As we discussed, the reason for taking you off the morphine was because of its weakening effect on patients with M.S. We felt the sooner you came off, the better."  
  
Still, Jed did not respond. Leo sensed a battle brewing.  
  
"If you try to stand now, and fail, it could still be because the drugs are not completely out of your system. Or - it could be the M.S."  
  
The Presidential jaw bunched, worked in anger and frustration. Leo knew that frustration, could literally feel it leaping from his friend.  
  
Again, Dr. Hilweg made the attempt. "Let's just give it-"  
  
"No." The tone was flat, tight, unapproachable. "Let's try - now."  
  
Resigned glances shot among the three and Leo sympathized with the anxiety on the German doctor's face, while at the same time he suppressed a grin. He could have told him this battle was not his to win, at least not yet. Whether he stood tall or fell flat on his face, Jed Bartlet was going to try. It didn't really matter what his doctor thought.  
  
"All right," Hilweg sighed, voice betraying defeat for the first time since Leo had met him. "Mister McGarry, we'll need your help. You take the left side and I'll get the right."  
  
Leo braced, carefully holding Jed by the elbow, ready to catch him if necessary. Dr. Hilweg moved to the right. Abbey hovered behind. Pushing off from the edge, Jed allowed the weight of his body to shift downward, asking his unused muscles to perform again. For a moment, he swayed under his own power and Leo felt the joy push at his throat.  
  
Then it happened. Jed's legs buckled, his body dropped, and it took all Leo's and Dr. Hilweg's strength to keep him from collapsing onto the floor. Grabbing his arms, they dragged him into the nearby chair, both grimacing against the agonized cry torn from his throat with the rough handling. Abbey was there immediately, wiping his face, her tone soothing, even if her words were not.  
  
"Stubborn son of a - You couldn't take anyone's word for it, huh? Now - " She stopped and bit her lip, running a trembling hand over his jaw, through the hair at his right temple.  
  
"Mister President?" Hilweg asked quietly.  
  
Jed took a steadying breath, a little too deeply, and winced, then brought his gaze up to meet the doctor's. His brow lifted. Leo figured he couldn't split his energy between speaking and managing the pain, so he elected to remain silent. Probably preferable to being vocal and screaming.  
  
"This does not necessarily mean - " Hilweg sighed heavily, obviously comprehending how the President would interpret this development. "Do not assume this means a relapse. Let's wait on that, all right?" But Leo heard the doubt even in the doctor's tone, and knew Jed heard it, too.  
  
After a moment, the President nodded, but his expression showed dejection, almost a surrender to the inevitable. It scared Leo. It scared him more than anything else had scared him.  
  
"All right," Hilweg echoed. "Why don't you sit there for awhile? Get used to being up. I'll have the nurse come in with some broth. Do you think you could sip a little?"  
  
Again, Jed nodded, but without enthusiasm. Leo knew he had not had anything except intravenous fluids since the explosion, could tell he had lost weight. It showed in his face more than anywhere else.  
  
As the doctor left, a nurse entered to check on vital signs, to straighten the monitor and IV lines. Leo walked Abbey into the hall, taking a deep breath.  
  
"How are the girls?" he asked, unwilling to begin the conversation with a deeper, more painful question.  
  
She seemed grateful. "Okay. I call them twice a day. Liz wanted to come. Well, the others, too, but she was really adamant."  
  
"Is she?" He hoped his voice didn't betray the fear at that idea, but he prayed Abbey told him no.  
  
Thank God, she was shaking her head. "Jed refused to let her." She smiled. "Liz said she was coming anyway, but she won't. Not since Jed said no."  
  
They walked in silence down the hallway, past the guards, to the windows, looking out over the milling crowds of press, gawkers, and genuinely concerned people. From behind them, a television anchorman babbled on, flooding the airwaves with every trivial bit of information he had, and not really saying anything new at all. Abbey watched the scene for a moment, then turned to Leo, jaw set, eyes hard.  
  
"Come on."  
  
What? Jogging to catch up with her, he asked, "What are you doing?"  
  
She didn't answer, but swung around the corner, gathering secret service as she went. When a surprised C.J. fell in with them, she pulled her close and whispered a few things. Before he knew it, they had stepped out into the bright outside light and the First Lady of the United States, clad in a sweater and jeans, stood at the vast array of microphones. A few stunned reporters jumped up. Others followed as they comprehended this magnificent moment of serendipity.  
  
C.J. announced that there was a statement to be made, then said clearly, "Ladies and Gentlemen, the First Lady."  
  
Statement? What statement? No one wrote a statement. But his panic vanished with one look at her face.  
  
Abbey approached the microphones, head high, face composed. "I would first like to express my condolences and my husbands' to those people who lost family and friends in this horrendous attack. They were innocents. They had come only to celebrate peace, not to suffer war. I would also like to express my thanks and my family's thanks for your prayers and your support during this time." She allowed a gentle smile to cross her face. "The President is doing better. As a matter of fact, he got up a little while ago and is gaining strength each hour."  
  
Okay. That's technically true.  
  
At her pause, questions shot from all about the crowd.  
  
"Mrs. Bartlet! Can you give us a medical update? Run through the injuries - Is the President's M.S. affected - How much pain is he in - ?"  
  
Leo watched as Dr. Abigail Bartlet pursed her lips, took a deep breath, and answered, "I'll need to let Doctor Hilweg address those issues at the next press conference. He is the President's attending physician and as such will be in the best position to make those observations."  
  
Oh, Abbey. How hard that was. How proud I am of you.  
  
Now she looked directly into the camera identified with the familiar CNN logo. "The President wants me to tell you that we will prevail over this. That he will be fine. That he is even now planning to do everything he can to ensure that peace is the rule rather than the exception in this world. He wants me to tell you he knows we are strong, as American citizens and as world citizens. And he wants me to tell you he will be speaking with you himself as soon as possible."  
  
Edith Wilson strikes again, he thought. You did good, Abbey. You did good.  
  
And with that she nodded and backed away, pulling her entourage with her, leaving the hungry reporters baited for more. As he walked with her, their eyes met and he smiled, nodding. She nodded back, mutual agreement between them.  
  
Unable to control the M.S., unable to control Jed's pain, she had at least taken control over something. Had shown the world that things were all right. That everything was going to be all right.  
  
He wanted to believe it. Oh, how he wanted to believe it.  
  
When they exited onto the special presidential unit, Ron Butterfield stepped from the secure room. "Mister McGarry?"  
  
He looked up and raised his brow in acknowledgement.  
  
"Ms. McNally needs to talk with you." 


	9. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 9

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 9/10 A West Wing Story  
  
POV: Abbey Spoilers: "Two Cathedrals," "H.Con 172," "In the Shadow of Two Gunmen" Rating: PG-13/R? (maybe a little) Disclaimer: Not mine.  
  
  
  
Abbey Bartlet twisted her neck around, hearing the crack of vertebrae, feeling some of the tension release with each snap. With gritty eyes, she looked across the bed at her husband, who had once again been hauled into the chair, changing positions, trying to coax his uncooperative muscles into action. She knew what Dr. Hilweg had said. She had told herself the same thing, but when Jed couldn't stand yesterday, she saw the pain on his face. Not just physical pain, but the pain of failure, the pain of realization that this could be it, this could be the moment they hoped never would come. That when he stood on that Bethlehem street moments after the explosion, it would be the last time he ever stood. God, she couldn't face that, now. Knew he couldn't.  
  
She had watched him fight his way through incredible pain with barely a whimper. Had winced herself when the nurses changed his dressings and she caught glimpses of the wicked wounds. Had held the wastebasket as he vomited first from the Naproxen, then from the pain itself. Surely he had earned the right not to have to deal with the M.S., too. Surely he had.  
  
Leo had been by, then left, and she felt the tears burn as she remembered his gentle praise about the impromptu press conference. She wasn't sure what had made her do that. Didn't know what her motive initially was, but now she was glad. Her words had comforted a nation and helped secure at least temporary stability for the world. Leo had told her that, said that she had done a good job. She succeeded at something, at least, even if it wasn't making Jed walk, or taking away his pain. She couldn't do that, but she could speak for him. So she had.  
  
Now she watched him carefully, eyes scanning the unshaven jaw, appraising each twitch, each grimace, each drop of sweat that rolled down his cheek. Wondering what he was feeling, wondering if he really had given up like it seemed. No amount of cajoling or teasing had brought about a smile earlier. He barely responded at all. And that scared her, that dull, unmotivated blankness. Jed Bartlet was not like that. Jed Bartlet was a passionate man. That's why she married him. Passionate about literature, passionate about economics, passionate about politics, passionate about the Church, passionate about people, passionate about his children.and passionate about her.  
  
She closed her eyes and tried to remember the last time they had made love before his trip. It must have been probably three or fours days prior to his leaving, maybe even more, a rare moment in a chaotic week. But he had surprised her, had managed a romantic candlelit dinner with wine and Mel Torme crooning in the background. The snare was carefully set, and if she followed him into the snare, she went willingly, just as eager as he was to be caught.  
  
She had lain in his arms, had kissed his chest, had trailed her hair down his body, awakening those passions. His response was heated as he drew her to him, as he moved inside her, as he brought her to exquisite climax before allowing himself to join her. That was in another time, another world. The world had changed, now. Changed forever. Just as Rosslyn changed it, so did Bethlehem, maybe even more so.  
  
Did it seem particularly special now as she wondered how many more times he could do that to her? She told him it didn't matter. It wouldn't affect her love for him at all if this disease progressed to the point that she knew he feared the most. The point at which he couldn't make love to her. And she meant it. Still, the thought of never having him inside her again, of never feeling the fullness of his thrusts, the heat of his release, that thought cut through her and she knew it had to be slicing him apart, as well.  
  
Of course, just because he might not be able to walk now, or even ever, didn't mean he would be impotent. She knew that, but it was the beginning, perhaps, the first step that led to his disintegration.  
  
Shut up! she scolded herself. Shut the hell up and focus on right now, on today. He's alive. That's more than you knew for certain a week ago. He's alive.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
His eyes, which seemed focused as much on the floor as anywhere else, didn't shift, didn't even blink acknowledgement of her call. She tried again.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
"Hm?" A short, reluctant answer, what she had been getting most of the time since yesterday.  
  
"Leo said he'd come by later to update you on their findings. Said he had a surprise for you. That sounds good, doesn't it?"  
  
Maybe a nod. She wasn't sure.  
  
This withdrawn, silent man was a stranger to her, an alien. She didn't know him, and she sure didn't know what to do with him. He had abandoned the fight, had relinquished his claim on the race, on breaking the victory ribbon. And it tore her apart more thoroughly than watching him struggle with the pain, because with that she knew he could do it, knew he would eventually overcome it.  
  
Okay, she couldn't just sit there and watch the most vibrant man she had ever known waste away physically and mentally. Something had to be done. Using her own pain and trauma of the past week, she balled up her emotions, reared back, and hurled them.  
  
"Damn you, Josiah Bartlet!" she spat, her voice jarring the secret service agents by the doors and windows. But she ignored their startled stares. "Damn your cowardly hide."  
  
That hurt. God, that hurt to say to him after all he had been through, after the courage he had shown. But she blustered on, committed now. It had gotten his attention, that was for sure. He raised his head to look at her, eyes squinted in pain and confusion, head cocked as if he was not certain he had heard her right.  
  
"Abbey?" The hurt there, the betrayal almost destroyed her resolve, but she hung on, gritted her teeth and continued.  
  
"Are you just going to sit there for the rest of your life? Just let it happen, welcome it? I thought maybe you'd at least try for me, for your wife who's seen you through almost thirty-five years of marriage, three children, six campaigns. But now I see how much I count, how much effort you'll put out for me." She snapped out the words, knowing if she stopped she would certainly not be able to finish.  
  
His jaw dropped now, shock replacing the blank mask. "Abbey, I-"  
  
"And just forget about your responsibilities to your country, to the world. It doesn't matter. Hoynes seems to be doing fine on his own." Ouch. That was a low blow and she saw from his narrowed eyes that it hit square on target.  
  
"If you've given up," she plunged on, "if you figure it's too hard to fight this, then I don't know you. God, Jed, I don't even want to know you."  
  
He paled suddenly, a sick greenish flush crossing his face and she almost reached for the wastebasket again. His eyes shifted from her. He stared at empty space and she could tell he was somewhere else, some other time, some other place. Wherever it was, it had affected him strongly. At last she had reached him.  
  
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible. "Abbey, what - what are you talking about? What are you saying?"  
  
Now she gave up, couldn't do it anymore, swung around the bed to kneel in front of him, to take his hands in hers, to look up into the eyes of the man she loved with all her heart.  
  
"I'm talking about Josiah Bartlet. I'm talking about the strongest man I know, a man who doesn't give up, even when he's the dark horse candidate behind 48 points in the polls, even when he's facing Congressional censure, even when he's dealing with a disease he doesn't deserve." She allowed herself a shadowy smile. "Even when he's been blown up."  
  
He looked up, and even though he didn't mirror the smile, she saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes.  
  
"I'm talking about the President of the United States. I'm saying it doesn't matter, Jed. Nothing matters but right now, and right now I've lost you. This is not the Jed Bartlet I know. I've lost you and I want you back." Tears streamed down her face, splashed gently on their hands and she saw them form in his eyes, too.  
  
"Oh, Abbey," he groaned softly. "I - I'm - I'm - " But he couldn't say it, she realized. He was scared. He was scared to try again, scared to find out for certain.  
  
"I know," she assured him. "I'll be here. I'll be with you, Jed, no matter what. No matter what."  
  
He tried to lean forward to kiss her, but the ribs protested and his motion broke off abruptly with a hiss. So she met him, took his mouth gently with hers, letting it be a soft caress, a sweet, loving touch. And they sat there for a long time, foreheads together, hands entwined, eyes closed, oblivious to the secret service, who seemed to breathe a little easier now.  
  
A discreet knock drew them both from the meditative state, and Abbey rose to see Leo standing at the door, several people hovering behind him. To her shock, she recognized both the western-suited Israeli Prime Minister and the scraggly, robed Palestinian leader. If Jed was shocked, he either couldn't or wouldn't spare the effort to show it. Instead, he lifted his chin toward the robe thrown across the end of the bed. Draping it around his bare shoulders, she stepped back and nodded toward the unusual party as it moved deeper into the room, noting that the unobtrusive presence of Dr. Hilweg also joined them. Was he here to witness a VIP meeting? Or was he here to be near his patient, just in case -  
  
The heavy accent of the gaunt Arab actually sounded sad and regretful. "Mister President, I have come for several reasons. The first is to personally express my deep sorrow over this terrible event. My people have been grieved that you suffered injury in your valiant effort to bring peace." Despite his apparent sincerity, Abbey found herself fighting down deep-seeded suspicion.  
  
The Israeli ruler stepped forward now, his English a little less affected. "I, too, offer regret over the incident, for both of you." He acknowledged her with a tight nod. "It pains me most that it happened in my country, at a place especially important to you."  
  
Well, this was certainly amazing, these two coming here together, but Abbey still could not determine their intent. True concern? A united front? An appeasement so America wouldn't bomb them back to Biblical times?  
  
Then things changed. The leader shifted to his right and Abbey saw a small woman emerge, wrapped in the confining, head-to-toe garb of her culture. Unaware that she had even been there before, the First Lady's eyes flickered to Ron Butterfield, standing resolutely behind them, but the agent showed no alarm.  
  
"Mister President," the Palestinian leader was saying, "this is Alyia Khadirim. She is a Muslim, a Palestinian. She and her son came to see you walk through the streets. Came to help you visit the shrine to your god."  
  
She watched her husband, whose eyes now flashed with interest, whose shoulders had squared again. But something about the situation alerted her, something about the woman. It didn't take long to be revealed.  
  
"Her son was killed in the explosion."  
  
She saw Jed's eyes close, watched the jaw muscles work furiously to contain his reaction, and she knew what he had realized, what her instincts had told her a few moments ago. This was the child.  
  
The leader continued. "She has come, Mister President, to tell you that she is not sorry you came to our land. She wants to thank you for your efforts, for risking your life, but she asks one thing. That you not let her son's life be wasted. That you make sure the peace comes." He turned to the Israeli minister. "Of all of us she asks this. Of all of us."  
  
Abbey wiped the tears that welled again and saw trails running down the President's cheeks. She caught her breath as she watched his face change. Her mouth opened at the determination spreading clearly across his strong features, and her jaw dropped as she watched his arms brace against the chair and push up. Dr. Hilweg moved a step toward him, but caught himself and waited. Oh, God. Please -  
  
Slowly, teeth gritted against the pain, he raised his body, waving away the suddenly offered hands of six other people. My God! she thought. He's doing it. Please let him do it!  
  
Shaking with the effort, the President of the United States stood before them, swaying and sweating, but standing alone, unassisted. Looking straight at the woman, he said, voice clear and strong, "I promise. Your son will not have died in vain."  
  
Even before the translation, she comprehended, her sad smile breaking through. She touched her forehead almost to her knees, then rose and stood behind the other men.  
  
Abbey yearned to move to him, to hold him up, but she didn't budge, knew he didn't want her to, now. This was the mother of the boy. The boy who had inadvertently save Jed's life, who had been lucky enough to be allowed close to the President, had even gotten a smile and hair tousling from the most powerful man in the world before his small body shielded that man from the deadly blast.  
  
She saw Jed's resolve, now, saw the weight his promise carried, knew that the momentary weakness, both physical and emotional, was over. This was the Jed Bartlet she knew. This was the Jed Bartlet she loved. This was the Jed Bartlet she needed.  
  
Leo stepped forward now, the faint smile on his lips out of place with the most recent events, but it was a smile of hope for them all. "Mister President, with your permission, I have something to add to this."  
  
His muscles still somehow holding him, Jed nodded consent to continue.  
  
"Initial investigations are complete."  
  
Oh, God. Abbey's heart surged upward into her throat. She swallowed in an effort to push it back down.  
  
Silence fell on the room before he went on. "With ninety percent reliability, our intelligence, in cooperation with Israeli intelligence - " He waved a hand of acknowledgement toward the Prime Minister. " - indicates that the bomb was actually an unexploded shell from at least a year ago. It was detonated accidentally, most probably a result of the massive crowds following the President's party."  
  
They stared at him. No one spoke. No one moved. Abbey ran his words over in her brain. Accidentally. Accidentally. Not -  
  
"It was an accident," Leo clarified. "Not an assassination attempt. Not a statement against the treaty. An accident."  
  
Abbey watched as the two leaders turned to each other, eyes meeting for perhaps the first time in true compassion, and nodded. Then they turned to Jed, who had finally allowed a small show of weakness by pressing one hand against his side and bracing on the end of the bed with the other.  
  
Still no one spoke, but their eyes held onto each other, conveyed messages beyond words, emotions beyond verbal expression. An accident. A terrible, tragic accident, but an accident.  
  
So it was over, really, except for the healing. And she felt that corner had been turned, as well. The worries of the future were still in the future. Her husband was here today, nursing wounds that would heal, once again fighting off the looming enemy. Once again victorious, both personally and globally.  
  
Her gaze caught that of Dr. Hilweg and she saw the clear delight on his face as Jed took a step forward, pain obvious, but muscles supporting him, and extended a hand toward his fellow world leaders.  
  
No, he would not give up. He would regroup, gather his troops, use the accident to further the cause, make it stronger than it would have been before.  
  
And after that, they would go home. And he would recover. Fully.  
  
She let her eyes fall on him again, standing, his jaw set, his eyes determined. Too bad they couldn't stop in Paris on the way back. 


	10. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Chapter 10

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons? 10/10 A West Wing Story  
  
(Stay tuned for the epilogue!)  
  
POV: Jed Spoilers: None Rating: PG Disclaimer: Everyone except Dr. Hilweg belongs to A.S.  
  
  
  
"I feel, Mister President, that I must emphasize once again my strong recommendation that you reconsider."  
  
President Josiah Bartlet didn't look at the head of his secret service detail, but kept his eyes focused on the passing scenes through the limousine window. Why did it seem all of the Middle East was brown? Sure, occasionally they passed an olive tree. And in the downtown areas steel structures stood out garishly against the monotone clay. But in general, he had always found it to be cast in earth tones, even down to the clothing of its inhabitants.  
  
Except for that day. That day the browns and tans gave way to gory splashes of red. He preferred it brown.  
  
Uneasily, he shifted, trying to keep his face blank, to avoid broadcasting to the other passengers how much it hurt just to breathe. But from the drawn brows on the faces of his wife and chief of staff, he figured he hadn't been very successful.  
  
"Duly logged and noted, Agent Butterfield," he acknowledged, moving his eyes quickly back to the window to escape the glare from his wife's dark eyes. "And I give you permission to kill me yourself if I get blown up again." Now he let a faint smile touch his lips at the morbid humor.  
  
Glancing up fondly, he knew Ron would never dream of returning the smile. Still, he expected at least a glimmer in the eyes. Apparently, the agent was not amused. Okay. Nevermind.  
  
Again, he watched the land between Jerusalem and Bethlehem fly by, thankful that finally he was seeing only one of everything. That had just happened that morning actually, a morning for a lot of firsts since the accident. His first real shower - if he didn't count being clad in saran wrap. His first chewable meal - soft-chew, anyway. His first shave.  
  
Now that was a treat. Mainly because his barber had been one Abigail Bartlet, who, armed with a bowl of hot water and a straight razor, had propped him up in the chair and eagerly gone to work to rid him of 13 days' growth of beard. Thank goodness she wasn't harboring any grudges at the moment.  
  
He still could feel the erotic scrape of the blade, the sensual touch of her hand as she ran it along his skin, could still smell her perfume as she bent over him. Despite the ever-present pain, he'd been rather pleased with his body's response, but disappointed that he couldn't act on the visible physical reaction. Even though the secret service agents had surely seen him in just about every condition imaginable in the past two weeks, there was one particular condition he'd just as soon keep between his wife and him. But Abbey had seen, and given him one of those looks that scolded and promised at the same time. Of course, medically it was out of the question. Still -  
  
Careful, he told himself as the memory stirred dangerous sensations. Remember where you are. For a brief, regrettable moment, he straightened to draw in a deep breath. Pain shot from his ribs, stabbing directly through his body, effectively destroying any concerns he might have had about becoming aroused in the limo.  
  
"Son of a bitch!" The curse was out before he could stop it, gaining him the immediate attention of every single passenger.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
That was Abbey, he pinpointed through the red haze in front of his eyes. He managed to hold up a hand, indicating that he would be okay after a moment. Just needed a little time to wait it out. Impatience buzzing around him, he focused only on pushing the pain back down.  
  
Even after almost two weeks, every move he made was accompanied by pain of some sort. Burning pain, aching pain, lancing pain, throbbing pain. It seemed to get worse, but he knew that was only an illusion, only a result of making himself do more, pushing his body to perform, to do things it really didn't want to do. But he had to. There was no other option. Finally, as the sensation faded to manageability, he gritted his teeth and breathed out gingerly.  
  
"Uh, anybody got an asprin?"  
  
He managed not to wince too much at the scowl on Abbey's face. "Josiah Bartlet," she fussed, but he heard the concern behind the irritation. "Didn't you take the Tylenol the nurse brought you before you left the hospital?"  
  
Well, no. Like that's been doing me a damned bit of good. Sugar pills would be more helpful. At that moment, however, he was reconsidering the possibility that his assessment might have been in error. Still, stand your ground. Show no weakness.  
  
"Abbey, you know that stuff is useless. Doesn't do a damn thing."  
  
"It was Tylenol with codeine, Jed. Dr. Hilweg figured it would be okay just for this occasion."  
  
He grimaced. "Now you tell me."  
  
After a moment, Leo suggested, "There's probably some in the ambulance."  
  
Jed sighed, a very shallow sigh. "I'm not going to stop the whole damn motorcade to get some EMT to give me an asprin. Forget it." He eased back, trying not to be too obvious as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Worried faces watched him closely.  
  
From across the car, C.J. leaned forward. "I, uh, I have some Midol, Mister President."  
  
Now he knew he saw that smile on Ron's face, if only for a second. What a choice. But the pounding in his side had moved up into his chest and was stretching its miserable influence toward his head.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Jed!"  
  
"Abbey, I don't care at this point what she has."  
  
"But Midol is-"  
  
"I know what Midol is. It's a pain killer, right?"  
  
"Among other things."  
  
"I don't need the other things, just the pain killer." He grinned, the first real grin since the accident. "Plus, I'll look thinner on television because I won't be retaining water."  
  
His disappointment over Abbey's refusal to respond was more than made up for by C.J.'s expression. And he considered the crack of a smile on Charlie's face to be a special bonus. Sincere about his willingness to down the Midol, he reached out a hand, but it was intercepted by his wife, still shaking her head, and now waving a small plastic bag in front of him.  
  
"Is this what you need?" she asked.  
  
"What the hell -"  
  
"You are the most stubborn man I have ever seen," she explained. "I figured you'd ditch the painkillers." Her voice softened. "But it's really hurting now, huh?"  
  
Yes, it was, but he sure as hell wouldn't admit it. He almost made a joke about her withholding drugs from a patient, but the very reference darkened his eyes and stopped his tongue. She saw the expression and misread it for an increase in the pain, because she gave up trying to make her point.  
  
"You are an evil woman, Abigail Bartlet," he observed.  
  
She ignored him. "Next time, don't be such an ass."  
  
"I would really prefer there not be a next time." He was quite content with being blown up only once.  
  
Shaking out two into her hand, she explained, "Doctor Hilweg sent these. Apparently, he's gotten to know you pretty well in two weeks. These should take effect enough to give you some relief. But don't make that speech too long; you'll be woozy."  
  
Okay. Decision time. To take or not to take? Visions of doubling over in pain as the world watched shot through his mind and he popped them in his mouth, chasing them down with the bottle of water Charlie had handed him.  
  
"I'm fine," he assured the five pairs of eyes staring at him. "Look, let's run through plan one more time, okay?"  
  
His distraction worked, at least for everyone but Abbey and he hadn't figured she would fall for it anyway. Ron nodded, happy to be proactive as much as possible. Leo, Charlie, and C.J. leaned in to listen.  
  
"We'll be retracing the last few steps you took, Mister President," the agent explained, his expression leaving no doubt about his disagreement with the entire idea. "The area has been scanned completely. Safety precautions executed, security posted all around."  
  
Jed frowned, not liking this show of protection, but realizing the necessity of it, especially now, especially this second time around.  
  
"The Prime Minister and Palestinian leader will have already arrived. All three of you -" Here he broke off, unable to contain himself. "Mister President, having all three of you together is just like painting big bulls eyes on your backs. Anyone who is determined to-"  
  
"Anyone who is determined to kill me, Ron, can do it, regardless of the safety precautions we take. You know that." Rosslyn had shown them that quite clearly.  
  
Ron's eyes admitted that he was right. Still, the agent dared to suggest, "Agreed, Mister President, but you don't have to pose for him."  
  
Ouch! That was unlike Ron, overstepping his bounds that way, but Jed could read the motivation behind it. Agent Butterfield would never admit it, but he truly cared for his protectee and his protectee knew it. So instead, Jed simply nodded.  
  
"I understand, Ron. Continue, please."  
  
  
  
As they neared the city, the crowds began to file in beside the road, first in tens, then hundreds, then thousands of people, clad in the most eclectic clothing imaginable, long robes, white short-sleeved shirts, business suits, army uniforms, T-shirts and jeans. Jed stared at them, feeling the burden of their turmoil, hearing the desperation of their pleas. By the time they reached their destination, the police had erected low barriers, creating a space at the very spot of the disaster. A long table draped with a rich, navy cloth, sat in the midst of the rubble. A mass of cameras and reporters teemed in an area designated for them and policed by a healthy show of uniforms.  
  
Jed took as deep a breath as he dared, noting with some satisfaction that the constant pain had at least dulled a bit. Working "without a net," as Sam and Toby would say, he ran through the few comments he planned to make after the signing ceremony, then nodded to Ron.  
  
"Okay?" Abbey asked, her question containing many meanings.  
  
"Okay," he replied. And he was. At least for now.  
  
When the door opened and he eased out, he thought at first that perhaps the Israeli Air Force had arranged for a fly-by in honor of the occasion, but the roar did not dim with passing planes. Instead it grew louder at his emergence from the vehicle and he finally realized with a start that it was coming from the people, a blanket of cheering that deafened them all. Leo was saying something, and smiling, but he couldn't hear, couldn't discern the words. It didn't matter. He grasped the sentiment, if not the exact syntax. They were cheering him. They were screaming for him. Amazing. Absolutely amazing.  
  
He tried not to favor his tender left side, tried to walk as casually as possible, knowing that he wasn't pulling it off with much success. Lifting his right hand, he tossed a wave to them and nodded his acknowledgement. The roars, if possible, increased.  
  
Then it hit him, the concussion of an explosion, the surprise of finding himself crumpled against a jagged rock, smoke swirling, dust raining, people screaming. Shock ran through him again, clutched at him, choked him. Oh God! Not now. Not now.  
  
Closing his eyes briefly, he reopened them to see the outstretched hands of his fellow statesmen, ready to greet, and, he suspected, help him onto the platform. The moment passed, the flashback disappeared. Ron moved closer, not touching, but still lending his strength. He breathed in and out to regain control, took each step carefully, then stood with them, six hands clasped together amid the firecracker report of camera shutters.  
  
They approached the ornate document that rested on the table. Palestine first, then Israel, then the United States. As he took the sun-warmed pen in his hand, he paused for a moment, lingering over the words, over the promises, and he considered the price that had already been paid over the years toward this peace, the price he, himself, had paid.  
  
And the price that small boy had paid.  
  
And he said a prayer right then for those who yearned for peace, for those willing to step toward it. Then, he touched the tip to the paper and watched as the ink flowed boldly onto it, proclaiming that Josiah Bartlet was part of this, that Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States of America was making a stand along with these other brave leaders.  
  
When he stood straight again, he had to take a moment to wait out the swirling in his head. Thankfully, it calmed and he turned his attention to the Israeli prime minister, who stepped to the microphone and declared his country's commitment to the historic treaty. Jed felt his body retreating from the scene, saw it from far away, through a long tunnel and clenched his teeth in an effort to stay focused. Surprisingly, it was the prime minister who drew him back in with his closing statement.  
  
"I turn to an American of the past to recognize an American of today. Hubert Humphrey, statesman and vice-president, said that 'the pursuit of peace resembles the building of a great cathedral. It is the work of a generation. In concept it requires a master-architect; in execution, the labors of many.' Our generation has begun construction on this cathedral."  
  
His arm swept back to include Jed in his remarks, bringing color to the President's cheeks. "We have the master-architect."  
  
Finally, he turned back to the crowd, arms up in appeal to everyone present and to the watching world. "Now the execution requires all of us to labor."  
  
Heavy applause rewarded him and Jed nodded his thanks as the Palestinian leader stood and spoke, also praising the efforts of those who brokered the peace. Again, the tunnel tried to close in on him, but he clawed his way to the sunlight and hung on. Finally, it was his turn.  
  
As he stepped to the crowded array of microphones, he fought back the wave of dizziness that washed over him, remembering Abbey's warning about a long speech. The pain had lessened, but his head swam with the effects of the Tylenol. But he could last it out, at least long enough to tell them what he came to say.  
  
Waiting out the applause, he began, voice low and calm. "Three weeks ago I came to this land. This land of Abraham. This land of Isaac and this land of Ishmael. I came here not as a Christian among Jews and Muslims. Not as an American among Israelis and Palestinians. I came here as a human being among human beings. We are all here as human beings among human beings.  
  
"And we met, and we talked, and we agreed. We agreed that to live together as human beings there are certain things we do and things we don't do. In 1945, at the Yalta Conference, Franklin Roosevelt said that 'peace can endure only so long as humanity really insists upon it, and is willing to work for it and sacrifice for it.' Well, my friends, we insist on peace and we stand ready to work for it and to sacrifice for it."  
  
Aware of the sweat that beaded on his brow, he resisted the urge to wipe it off, unwilling to show any weakness that might bring doubt on his own resolve. Instead, he gripped the podium tightly and continued, avoiding the alarm he knew would see in Abbey's eyes if he dared to look her way.  
  
"Thirteen days ago that infant peace, barely removed from the womb, was tested by a relic from a bygone conflict, from a war that is now past. That relic could have destroyed the infant, but it did not. This newborn peace is growing stronger each moment we let it live. Let that relic be the end of the old. Let the burst of pain and suffering signal the last of the pain and suffering that we inflict on each other, on our fellow human beings."  
  
Now he drew upon his oratorical gifts to reach them, to stretch up to the satellites and into the homes of the world, to bring them with him. He controlled the pitch, the timbre, the rhythm so that they followed him, dived with him, danced with him, flew with him. They were his now and he knew it, determined to make their loyalty worth the effort.  
  
"For uncounted years we have buried fellow humans before their time." He paused, hoping the trembling in his legs went unnoticed, praying that it would remain absent in his voice. Willing his strength to hold out just a while longer, he pushed the power into his words.  
  
"It has been said that 'in peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons'."  
  
Now his eyes meet those of the audience, Arabs and Jews, Christians and Muslims. These were his words, not Sam's, not Toby's, but his words from deep inside. With all the passion he had, all the duty he felt for humanity, he carried the people with him to the climax.  
  
"Shall we bury fathers or sons?"  
  
He looked hard into the eyes before him, into dark eyes and light eyes, into young eyes and old eyes, into eyes of hate and eyes of hope.  
  
"I say to you today, my fellow human beings, I say we bury fathers. I say sons bury fathers, and daughters bury mothers at the end of life, at the time of the journey into our eternal destinies. Not at the youth of life, or even the prime of life."  
  
The passion in his heart flowed upward through his voice. "Let the sons bury their fathers. Let the sons bury their fathers because we live in peace."  
  
Finally, a long pause and the last emphasis. "Because we live in peace."  
  
Head buzzing now, he stepped back from the platform. The erupting roar of the crowd seemed far away again, the wild, enthusiasm dulled by its distance from his consciousness. Still, he felt the hands in his, saw the smiles, the adoration on the faces, the tears on the cheeks, heard the praise, the congratulations. The walk to the limousine went by in a blur, and he was vaguely aware of hands helping him in, of voices giving orders.  
  
He opened his eyes, unable to remember closing them, and realized that he leaned back on the seat, his coat off, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down. The low vibration told him they were already under way. Abbey's face loomed closest, but behind her hovered the anxious expressions of C.J., Leo, Charlie, and Ron.  
  
Well, hell.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
Yeah. I'm all right. I'll just sit up now. A gentle pressure on his chest. Ouch. Still tender.  
  
"Just lie there, Jed, until we get back to the hospital. You'll be fine."  
  
He looked at Leo, whose face was flushed with both triumph and concern. His old friend nodded and pursed his lips. "Congratulations, Mister President," he said, and that was all Jed needed to hear from him. It told him enough.  
  
"Way to go, Sir," C.J. added.  
  
Behind her, Ron's expression did not change. Except for the clear admiration shining in his eyes, and that meant more to Jed than any words he could have uttered.  
  
Now Abbey leaned in, her lips brushing his ear intimately. "You did good, Babe. You did real good."  
  
At his whisper of her name she shook her head, comprehending his unspoken question, just as he had known she would. "It's not-It's not- You just pushed too hard. You just pushed too much, Jethro."  
  
C.J.'s surprised snicker broke the seriousness and he mustered enough energy to mutter, "Okay, Claudia, you'll pay for that."  
  
"Yes, Sir," she answered, without even a shade of remorse.  
  
Abbey continued, the smile in her voice obvious. "You just rest, now. We're going home."  
  
Home. Okay. That sounded good. Really good. As he let the drugs take control of his body, he thought about what had transpired in three short weeks.  
  
Peace. An impossible peace made possible.  
  
At least he sincerely hoped it was. And he believed it was, had to believe it was. The hope in those faces before him made him believe.  
  
As the tunnel finally closed in on him, he lifted his hand toward Abbey and she took it, grasped it firmly. He felt the hot tears burn his eyes, but fought back the emotional display. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Here he was the President of the United States. Here he was the world leader who would probably join the infinitesimal ranks of multiple Nobel Prize winners. So, no, he would not let the emotions take over now. Not here.  
  
But maybe later. Maybe just with Abbey.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"The pursuit of peace resembles the building of a great cathedral. It is the work of a generation. In concept, it requires a master-architect; in execution, the labors of many."  
  
Hubert H. Humphrey February 17, 1965, New York City  
  
"Peace can endure only so long as humanity really insists upon it, and is willing to work for it and sacrifice for it. Twenty-five years ago American fighting men looked to the statesmen of the world to finish the work of peace for which they fought and suffered; we failed them, we failed them then, we cannot fail them again and expect the world to survive again."  
  
Franklin D. Roosevelt March 1, 1945 Yalta  
  
"In peace the sons bury their fathers, but in war the fathers bury their sons."  
  
Croesus, Lydian king to Persian King Cambyses Quoted in Francis Bacon's Apophthegms No. 149 


	11. Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons Epilogue

Shall We Bury Fathers or Sons - Epilogue A West Wing Story  
  
POV: Abbey Spoilers: "Night Five" (a little) Rating: R Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I did not create these characters. But I do love these characters!  
  
  
  
She stood beside her husband watching the cordial exchange between him and the French President, representing the members of the European Union. Two flags with their identical colors whipped at the tops of their poles, framed against a brilliant blue Paris sky. It was the completion of his original trip, which had begun three months ago, and now ended under the Arc de Triumph with another historic, though less spectacular, treaty. Perhaps not nearly as significant as the peace forged between Israel and Palestine, the amicable economic agreement nevertheless capped an eventful series of foreign policy successes for the Bartlet Administration.  
  
And Jed Bartlet looked successful. His eyes twinkled as he clasped his colleague's hand in his. His smile widened at the obvious delight with which the French people greeted him. His voice carried firmly, eagerly over the crowd as he spoke to them in sure, warm tones.  
  
Despite his outward appearance of full recovery, however, the President of the United States was under careful scrutiny at the moment. Not by those in attendance, who took at face value the fact that he fairly bounded with energy, or by those viewing through television, who assumed he would not be there if there was a question about his health.  
  
No, this scrutiny was by his wife.  
  
Abigail Bartlet knew better than anyone, even his doctors, exactly how difficult it had been for him to reach this moment. First he had endured weeks of pain-wracking physical therapy, struggling to regain his strength, fighting for control over burning muscles and aching bones. And the world had watched, had seen him early on in his battle with his own body. News stations across the globe carried the unbelievable ceremony heralding the Mid-East treaty signing, speculated at the obvious pain the President was in at the time. And only a few weeks later marveled at the change, gushed over the apparent picture of health he now displayed.  
  
But Abbey knew that his physical recovery had been the easy part, regardless of how hard even that had been. No, no one else knew the worst, not even Leo. The nights of sweats and nightmares, unable to destroy the continual replays of explosions and screams and blood. On more than one occasion, she had grabbed his shoulders and shaken, first gently, then harder, trying to wake him as he yelled hoarsely, sometimes Leo's name, sometimes her name. Sometimes the name of the child.  
  
But no one would suspect in that moment of glory under the waving red, white, and blue of two nations. No one could imagine that this confident, charismatic man still faced such pain when the world was not looking, when the lights were out, when his wife's arms provided his only comfort.  
  
Even now as she watched him smile at the crowd, saw the certainty in his eyes, heard the rich voice that had charmed even the French, even now she remembered just two nights before when he sat up straight in the bed, tears streaming down his face, crying out to some unseen victim. After she managed to wake him, he claimed no recollection of what had prompted the outburst, but she saw the memory in his eyes, felt his dread over returning to sleep. Stanley Keyworth had visited several times, under the pretense of checking on Josh, but everyone in the White House knew, had to know, his true intended patient. And he had helped some, had given Jed an outlet to try to purge himself of the horrible accident, but Abbey and Stanley both knew it would take time. And she promised herself that she would give him that time.  
  
Now the enthusiastic cheers signaled the end of his speech. Releasing the breath she had been holding, she stepped to his side, reaching for his hand.  
  
He had insisted on speaking French, on honoring them with the effort, and she counted on a combination of a bitten lip, crossed fingers, and prayer to pull him through without finding himself the evening sound byte on Larry King. Couldn't hurt, she figured. It was a brief speech and to the point. She had convinced him of that. Fewer opportunities for misspeaking in one of the few languages he really didn't know well. Her tactics worked, though, because somehow the words came out exactly right. He didn't create an international incident by calling the president's wife a cow or anything similar. In fact, his audience screamed wildly and his popularly seemed solidly cemented.  
  
As her fingers slipped between his, he squeezed gently and winked at her, still waving with one hand and nodding, until they moved off the steps and toward the limousine that waited. Tears touched her eyes as she tried to grasp the enormous impact that this man she had loved for almost 35 years had on the entire world. It was difficult to comprehend.  
  
"Mister President," Ron Butterfield greeted, opening the door for them.  
  
"Ron, my man," Jed returned, slapping the agent on the back. "I need a word with you."  
  
As they slid into the back, Ron started to follow, but Jed shook his head, leaning over to whisper in the agent's ear. Abbey saw the frown wrinkle the smooth mask, but Ron did not argue. Instead, he stepped away and closed the door.  
  
Well, that was a surprise. She wondered how Jed had convinced his constant shadow to disappear for a while.  
  
Then, as they began to move, the privacy window rose between them and the driver. For all intents and purposes, they were alone in the limousine. A mixture of suspicion and excitement flowed through her as she turned to pin him with a speculatively raised eyebrow. He grinned back, and pulled her a little closer.  
  
"What are you up to, Mister President?" she asked unnecessarily.  
  
Because she knew. They had been in Paris only a few hours, arriving that morning in time for him to meet with the French president and verify the points that the diplomats had already worked out. The joint announcement followed and now they were headed to the Hotel de Crillon for that romantic evening he had promised her so long ago.  
  
She knew exactly what he was up to. It had been less than 24 hours since the team at Bethesda, in satellite contact with Dr. Hilweg, had released him completely. No limitations, no stipulations. He was, as he had noted on a similar day fourteen weeks after Rosslyn, "good to go." And apparently quite ready to go.  
  
So was she.  
  
"Well, even Ron knows that two's company. Remember," he began, his voice taking on that deep, sensual quality that sent pangs of desire through her, "what I promised you?"  
  
She looked at him, glad to see the sparkle in his eyes instead of the pain, and pushed back any lingering concerns over his physical well-being, devoting her attention to him.  
  
"In the hospital," he prompted when she didn't respond immediately, his tone betraying disappointment. "That first time I saw you after-"  
  
Was he serious? "I know what you are talking about, Romeo. I just can't believe you remember that. I figured you were too doped up to even really know I was there."  
  
"Ah, Sweet Knees," he cooed in satisfaction, buzzing her neck with his lips, "a man would have to be dead not to feel your very electric presence next to him."  
  
A shiver raced down her spine, but not from his caresses. His words chilled her. After all, he had not been far away from that very condition at the time. But she didn't want him to see, so she forced a teasing smile to maintain the mood he had initiated.  
  
"Well, let's see. You mentioned something about jumping off the Eiffel Tower, right?"  
  
She heard the chuckle and knew they had both bought into the game. "Yeah. Something like that." Easing closer, he ran a hand up her arm, sending new shivers down her back, this time from pleasure. "I thought, maybe, now-"  
  
"Now?" My God, he was serious! "Josiah Bartlet! Are you insane? You cannot mean that you want to-"  
  
His leer confirmed her suspicions.  
  
"In the limo?"  
  
He grinned.  
  
"In the middle of Paris?"  
  
He grinned wider.  
  
Another suspicion entered her mind. "I don't think you can drive under the Eiffel Tower," she pointed out.  
  
"No, but you can drive around it. That's pretty close," he confirmed.  
  
My God!  
  
"Jed, we'll be at the hotel in a few minutes."  
  
As his lips slid down her neck he mumbled, "Then we'll just have to drive around the block awhile, hmmm?"  
  
His hands were moving now, sending jolts of desire through her body, jolts that she had not felt for almost three months, jolts that propelled her with unexpected speed toward total disregard for protocol and propriety.  
  
"Jed," she whimpered in feeble protest, pushing at his chest gently.  
  
His quick grimace reminded her that the wounds were still relatively fresh, still tender.  
  
"Are you sure," she gasped, the doctor threatening to overpower the lover in her, "that you're up for this?"  
  
He answered by guiding her hand to his groin. Oh yeah, she realized. He was most definitely up for this. Any more protests fell unspoken. As she slid her fingers up his body, he moved over her, eased her into a reclining position on the seat. And his hands continued to work, sliding under the jacket, under the blouse, over her bra to cup her breast. If he was insane, so was she. Oh, but it was great to be insane.  
  
She jerked, startled, as he pushed the clothes upward and covered her breast with his mouth, the warm breath heating her skin even through the lace of the bra. Who cared if he jumped her under the Eiffel Tower? Who would know, anyway? Well, maybe the driver. And she figured Ron was not totally ignorant of their actions.  
  
Surrendering any pretense at resistance, she reached up to hold his head, to guide him to the other breast, for its fair share. Then her hands moved lower, across the muscles of his shoulders, and drew him up so she could kiss him. As their lips met, she sucked gently on his tongue, teeth nipping at the tip, pleased at the low moan she elicited. He lay on her now, and she was acutely aware of his arousal. Pulling his shirt free from his trousers, she caressed the scars at his side, the smooth new skin easily distinguished from the uninjured areas. Biting her lip, she thought about how close they had come to losing this moment and never having one like it again. When his eyes fell on her, she sensed that they shared the thought. Her deft surgeon's fingers unbuttoned his shirt and she touched her lips to one of the small scars on his chest, moving to the next one and the next. Nicks, really, that had required only a few stitches each, but that made just as lasting a mark on his body as the fierce ones over his ribs.  
  
His eyes lost some of their focus now. He buried his head against her neck as she ran her tongue in slow circles around his ear, across his jaw, in the hollow at the base of his throat. His hands braced on either side of her against the seat, and she felt him shaking, sensed the barely- restrained control. After three months of forced celibacy, she knew it wouldn't take long for either of them.  
  
"Abbey," he warned hoarsely as her hands brushed against the insistent bulge beneath his trousers. "It won't take much."  
  
That was okay, because it wouldn't take much for her, either. Not much at all. God, she wanted him, had counted the days to this moment. He pushed the skirt up and even as her breath caught, she grinned at his response when he discovered the stockings, garter, and bra she had chosen especially for this occasion. His jaw dropped, his eyes burned their approval, and his breath came a little faster.  
  
"Babe," he groaned as she stroked him through the straining material, "I'm afraid this is not going to last much longer than my speech."  
  
She grinned, pleased to be reminded of how strongly she affected him. He wanted her, he wanted her badly, and she gave up trying to suppress her own desires. She reached up to unbutton his pants. The zipper was taut as she lowered it, and the thin boxers provided poor restraint for his erection. Her fingers dragged them down and she spread her legs, unable to suppress a groan as he moved between them.  
  
"Abbey," he whispered, drawing her eyes away from his body. "Look at me."  
  
She lifted her eyes and was struck by the adoration mirrored in his. She could only acknowledge with a soft grunt, not quite able to express clear thought.  
  
"I love you, Abbey," he declared, joining them with one smooth thrust.  
  
Tears spilled down her face, both at the physical sensation of having him inside her again, and at the emotional sensation of hearing the deep genuine devotion in his voice.  
  
Oh, this was so good, what she had yearned for, what she had missed for so long. Already, the contractions built even though he had barely begun to touch her, to move within her. She watched him and saw from the tightness in his jaw that he struggled to hold on, to control himself for her, to wait for her. Her muscles squeezed, delighting in the solid fullness of him.  
  
His responding moan was agonized, pleading, warning.  
  
But that was okay, too, because she felt herself soaring toward the edge, felt her body arching upward to meet him, to merge with him, to rock against him, her head thrown back, her throat open and gasping. She didn't think she could go higher, but she did, kept on responding to him until he finally stiffened, crying out her name in a voice hoarse with passion and love. After a few delicious aftershocks, he melted onto her.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
No answer. Oh God. Okay, don't panic. After all, it was pretty intense.  
  
"Jed?"  
  
Finally, a low groan responded to her. "Mmm?"  
  
She breathed easier and chuckled. "You okay there, Jethro?"  
  
He managed to lift his head and grin, a grin she had seen uncounted times through the years, but one that never failed to thrill her. "I don't think 'okay' even comes close, Ellie Mae." He raised his hand and pointed.  
  
Following it, she saw, through the darkened windows, the majestic spires of the Eiffel Tower passing. Well, he had done it. He had kept his promise.  
  
She thought about her worries in the hospital, wondering if they would ever have a moment like this again, so grateful that they could. And judging from his performance, they were in no danger of losing this method of expressing their love any time soon.  
  
After a few minutes of recovery, he kissed her gently and withdrew, sighing at the loss of intimacy. Knowing they must be nearing the hotel, they both redressed quickly and sat back on the seat, her head against his shoulder, his arm around her back and waist, resting against her hip. He looked satisfied, not just physically, but emotionally, mentally. She wasn't naïve enough to think that one roll in the hay would solve his problems, but she did know from medical experience that the release of endorphins might just give him the boost he needed to continue the fight.  
  
And she also knew that the M.S. had not disappeared on its own. He had fought it and she had fought it and together they had wrestled the monster back under the bed. She hoped that it would stay there for a good, long time. For a moment, her thoughts were back on Air Force One. Sitting in his cabin, in his chair, looking out his window. She had not known the extent of his injuries, had not really even known if he would live. The agony of those hours came back to her in a rush of emotion and she couldn't stifle the sob the welled in her throat.  
  
"Hey," he whispered, running a finger tenderly across her jaw. "You okay?"  
  
With a sniff, she nodded, smiling through the shimmer of welling tears.  
  
"Abbey?" Now the voice deepened with concern, but she shook her head and touched his lips.  
  
"I'm okay. I'm just-I'm just-" She didn't know how to finish, what to say, so she said what was strongest in her heart. "I love you, Jed."  
  
He smiled, his own eyes suspiciously shiny and kissed her again.  
  
As the palatial walls of the Hotel de Crillon appeared, the limousine pulled to a stop. A long moment followed and they exchanged amused glances, knowing very well that Ron was giving them a few extras minutes, if they needed them. When the door finally opened, Abbey checked his face for any sign of embarrassment or amusement, but the stoic agent remained expressionless. Or maybe she just wasn't quick enough to see the shine in his eyes. She wasn't sure.  
  
When he spoke, however, her uncertainty disappeared. "Nice ride, Mister President?" Was that a gleam?  
  
Jed grinned, of course. "Very nice, Ron. Thank you."  
  
Self-consciously, she smoothed her dress and hair as her husband extended his hand. "Abigail."  
  
The crowds that had gathered again cheered them, waved American and French flags, and screamed when they held hands. Jed turned to her and lifted a brow, asking permission, she knew. She smiled her acceptance. They stopped briefly on the red carpet extended specially for them and he leaned in to kiss her softly, his lips lingering long enough for their appreciative audience to break into enthusiastic applause. She felt the flash of the cameras, heard the domino shutter clicks, and prepared herself to see the moment preserved for posterity on the covers of every major newspaper in the world the next day.  
  
Ron fell in behind as they entered the ornate lobby, catered to by every possible member of the staff. But Abbey had only one goal, only one thought. And she was pretty sure Jed's mission matched exactly. It had been a long three months and a few moments of passion in the back of a limousine didn't even begin to make up for time missed. Picking up the pace, she dragged her husband with her, forcing Ron to break into a quick trot to keep up, but he managed, following them to their suite and positioning appropriate guards outside the door. Not too closely, though. He was learning.  
  
Later, relaxed and finally satisfied, they lay sprawled on the huge bed, Jed's head on her stomach, her hand slowly stroking his hair. The soft snores told her he had drifted off and she realized that for the first time in weeks he slept peacefully, no dreams that left him shaken and sweating, no nightmares that brought a cry to his lips, or tears to his eyes.  
  
And she prayed that they had ended.  
  
Prayed that he had finally managed to get past the pain.  
  
Prayed that she would never again receive a phone call like the one from Leo on that day.  
  
Prayed that the world could find peace, that the treaty would hold, that Jed's desire to bury fathers instead of sons could be fulfilled.  
  
And after she prayed, she offered silent thanks for the moment, rested her hand on his shoulders and slept. 


End file.
